Miles To Go Before I Sleep
by Flight of Fancy
Summary: AU. Angel O’Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he’d thought he’d escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of
1. Chapter 1

**Part**: 1? Disclaimer: Even AU they don't belong to me 

**Feedback**: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

**Summary:**AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.

**Author's Note**: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. _Italics_ indicate thought.

_June 12, 2005 _

_3:32 PM_

_The Hyperion Hotel_

In retrospect, Angel should have known that something unpleasant was coming. Since he'd woken up this morning, his car had broken down (in the rain), Cordelia had completely neglected to even pretend to do her job, and Starbucks had run out of blueberry muffins. How could any coffeehouse worth its salt _run out_ of blueberry muffins! It was clearly a bad day. So when the short man in the tacky clothing and the fedora walked into his office, the P.I. should have just run away screaming into the bright Los Angeles sun.

Instead, like the unsuspecting sacrificial lamb that he was, Angel O'Brien politely said, "Welcome to Angel Investigations. Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I think you can," the man responded, looking Angel up and down. "Can we talk in private, Angel?"

Cordelia, who had been filing her nails at the desk, looked us sharply at this. Angel had a sinking feeling. When complete strangers called him by name, it was always bad. If he'd been anyone else, he might have assumed that the person was just guessing at who he was because of the name of the agency. But he was Angel, and the universe hated him.

"All right," Angel murmured, taking a deep breath. "We'll go into my office." _Have I done anything illegal lately? I double-parked at the grocery store. I took that extra cookie without paying for it, but I'm sure nobody was looking. Oh God, what has HE done?_

"Not many people have their own hotel, y'know," the man said as he sat in one of the chairs across from the desk. He seemed perfectly relaxed, leaning back in his chair, whereas Angel was felt wired, nervous and irritated all at the same time.

"Yeah, it's great," the detective said tensely. "Was there something that you wanted to talk about?"

"Bit of a fixer-upper, though. Heard a rumor that it was haunted." The man's voice held traces of a Brooklyn accent, and he seemed in no particular hurry to get to the point.

Angel was already having a very bad day, he knew it was only going to get worse, and he just wanted to get it over with. "Does this have to do with Angelus?" There, it was out in the open, and the brunette detective waited anxiously for the answer.

With an inscrutable look, the man finally focused. "Yeah, but that's not the least of your problems."

"Who are you?"

"The name's Whistler."

"Whistler? That's a name?"

Raising an eyebrow, Whistler retorted, "Right, 'cause 'Angel' is both masculine and 100 real."

Now the detective was slightly offended. "There's nothing wrong with 'Angel'. It's a good name."

"Right. But it's not _your_ name. Pull out your driver's license and take a look, if you're goin' senile."

Angel, knowing his driver's license proudly proclaimed him to be Liam Michael O'Brien, shifted the topic. "You said this had to do with Angelus?"

"Yeah," Whistler shifted forward in his chair and adjusted his fedora slightly. "Your brother's planin' getting you in some serious trouble."

_Damn_. He'd hoped, in a nasty little part of his head, that Whistler had been sent here to tell him that Angelus was dead. But no, Angelus O'Brien was going to live forever and a day, just to spite his enemies; nobody knew this better than his twin brother. It didn't matter that two years ago Angelus had promised to leave Angel alone and let the younger twin live his life. Promises didn't mean much when there was money to be made and power to be gained. "That's what he's best at. Are you from Wolfram and Hart?"

Whistler snorted. "Are you kiddin'? That place gives me the creeps. I wouldn't go near it with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole. Nah, I play for the other side."

"You're a cop?" That was odd. The LAPD usually left Wolfram and Hart alone. Angel had a sneaking suspicion that the law firm owned them.

That made Whistler laugh as he answered, "If I was a cop, I probably wouldn't have a dashboard covered in parking tickets."

"Then who do you work for?"

"That's not important," Whistler answered nonchalantly. "What's important is what's gonna go down in a couple of hours."

"Which is?"

"Angelus is going to give you a call. He'll want you to do something for him." Whistler, for the first time since he'd entered the building, seemed to be serious about something.

"He told me he'd leave me alone." And Angel knew the words were stupid. He was wincing before they'd even left his mouth. But he had to protest to somebody. Angelus had _promised _that Angel was free and clear, that he could live on the right side of the law for once. And for two whole years, the older twin had kept that promise. He had even left Angel alone when the P.I. ended up investigating some of Wolfram and Hart's clients, a courtesy that he didn't extend to anyone else. The last time Angel had even seen his brother was at the O'Brien family's Thanksgiving dinner. But now all of that was about to end.

"And you believed him?" Whistler laughed. "He's a bona fide creep, detective man. Plus, he's a lawyer. He lies for a living."

"He's not a lawyer anymore," Angel protested quietly, not for any other reason than to give himself time to process. Something awful was going to happen soon, and he'd be forced to be a part of it.

"Right, he's a CEO. _That_ means he's honest." Whistler seemed to be constantly laughing at something or another. It was beginning to get on Angel's nerves.

"Why are you here?" The detective asked flatly, feeling resigned to his fate suddenly. "You say you aren't with Angelus, but you know what he's up to. So what's your damn message for me?" Resigned he might have been, but Angel was still mightily pissed.

"Whoa, ease up on the anger," Whistler said, holding up his hands as if to fend the detective off. "For a good guy, you sure have a short fuse."

Realization dawned suddenly on Angel. "You're going to tell me not to do what he says. To say no to him." The idea of saying no to his brother both thrilled and frightened Angel. For as long as he could remember, Angelus had kept a plethora of people around him who would do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. In high school it had been the football team, in college it had been the other students in his law classes, and now Angelus was CEO of Wolfram and Hart, the most powerful law firm in the city. And so Angel, who always had felt smaller than his twin even if they were the same size, inevitably ended up doing what Angelus wanted. Because fighting him only resulted in someone getting hurt. Cars got vandalized, friends were threatened by mysterious strangers, and pets ended up injured or dead.

So, yeah, the rule of thumb was that when Angelus said jump, Angel got out the trampoline. And Angel had so much to lose now…But to say no? To finally take a stand?

"Hey, earth to the caveman here," Whistler snapped, irritated at the fact that Angel had zoned out. "There's still a conversation going on."

"Sorry," the detective muttered. Straightening, he asked, "But it that what you want? For me to say no?"

"Actually, slick, what my bosses and I want is for you to take this one." Whistler leaned back and waited.

"WHAT!" Angel yelped. "You son of a bitch, you do work for Angelus!"

Rolling his eyes, Whistler reached into his pocket, and Angel was paranoid enough that he started to think about how quickly he could grab the gun. But no, the fedora-clad man simply withdrew a small, plain, white card and tossed it onto Angel's desk. The only thing that was printed on it were three small, black letters.

P.T.B.

"Nice font," Angle muttered as he turned the card over, looking for some other clue. "What's it stand for?"

"That's for me to know and you to figure out. I thought you were supposed to be a detective?"

"You are one of the most insulting creatures I've ever had the displeasure to meet."

"Thank you." Whistler propped his feet on the desk and Angel's eye twitched. "Look, I know it doesn't make sense now, but this could be the most important thing you do all decade. There are a lot of people you can help if you do what Angelus tells you."

"But-"

"I know he's evil. It just so happens that what he's having you do isn't so evil."

Angel was still doubtful, staring alternately at Whistler's appalling shirt and the card in his hand. P.T.B. What could that mean?

Whistler sighed and got up, saying, "You've got a lot of reasons to not believe a word I'm saying. But for what it's worth, chief, I'm tellin' the truth." He turned to leave.

"Wait!" Angel cried out. "That-that's the only thing you're going to tell me? To do what you and Angelus say?"

Whistler stared, looking exasperated. "For the last time, I can't stand your brother and wouldn't work for him if he had a gun to my head. And I'm not telling you what to do. The choice is yours." He tipped his hat to Angel and walked out the door. This time, Angel didn't call him back.

The brunette stared at the card for a long time, brooding. Choice was something that, up until two years ago, he'd never had. From the moment he had been thrust into the world thirty-two minutes after Angelus and in critical condition, people had told Angel what he was going to do. First his father, glaring and scolding Angel into taking a business career like all of the other men in his family, and then Angelus, making sure that his twin was squarely under his thumb. But for someone who had been keeping his head down and doing what he was told his whole life, Angel had become remarkably good at taking care of himself and the people that he loved.

He had the choice. He could ignore Whistler and his advice, Angelus and his orders, and go on living his life as he had been. But…but Whistler had said that the job would be important and help people. And Angelus was still Angelus. If Angel said no, there was a long list of people that Angel could go after. Cordelia, Doyle, Buffy, even Darla, if she was still alive. And Connor. Little Connor, Angel's son who had been gone for so long. Memories of begging and pleading, shame making his face turn red as he swallowed his pride and implored his brother for help. _'Keep him safe, take him somewhere where no one can hurt him, and I'll do whatever you want.'_ Angel had promised and he believed in keeping his word.

Damn. Damn it all to hell. Angel got wearily out of his chair, feeling like he was going to his own execution. He pulled on his coat, feeling safer when it was wrapped around him. The smell of leather had always been comforting to him, which was strange and probably vaguely disturbing to others, but the detective couldn't be brought to care.

Walking out of his office, he met Cordelia's eyes. She was staring at him with concern, pretty face twisted with worry. God, he loved her, he wouldn't know what to do if something happened to her.

"It's about him, isn't it?" Sometimes, pronouns sufficed where normal words should have been.

Angel nodded mutely and was heading for the door of the Hyperion even as Cordy was pleading, "Don't go, Angel, please, you shouldn't." _Crap. I can't just leave_.

He walked back to the desk and stared into her brown eyes, which had the beginnings of tears in them. "I have to. It's…it's important." Remembering something, Angel darted back into his office and returned with Whistler's card. "Run this by Doyle when he gets back, see what turns up." Sighing sadly, Cordelia nodded.

Angel walked out the door to his car, his baby, his Plymouth GTX. Even though everything was falling apart, he still had this wonderful car. It made things better. Barely. Turning it on and getting a brief high from hearing the engines hum to life, Angel pulled into traffic and set a course for Wolfram and Hart.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

Part: 2? Disclaimer: Even AU they don't belong to me 

Feedback: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

Summary: AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.

Author's Note: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. _Italics_ indicate thought.

_June 12, 2005_

_4: 02 PM_

_The Los Angeles branch of Wolfram and Hart_

Angel parked in the underground garage, not willing to risk his baby to any carjackers that might have been lurking. As he strode quickly through the dark space, the detective couldn't help but glance at all of the pricey, shiny cars that inhabited the garage. One Lexus, two Lexus, red Lexus, blue Lexus. If they had to buy obnoxiously expensive cars, couldn't the minions of Wolfram and Hart buy something worth looking at? Would a Porsche or Ferrari kill them? The thought of the red Ferrari he had once owned made Angel's toes curl for a brief moment of car-loving ecstasy. The brunette often wondered what had happened to that Ferrari once Angelus repossessed it. He hoped it had been given a good home.

Shaking his head, Angel had to smile at himself. Here he was, about to enter the lion's den, and he was waxing poetic about (sexy, wonderful, cherry red) cars. This was not a time for poetics, or weakness. This was Wolfram and Hart, as close to the Devil as Angel ever hoped to come. He came to the elevator. His fingers still knew which buttons to push. Off he went, to the top of Angelus' castle.

The lobby hadn't changed. It was spacious, the various staircases and offices spread out to give the impression that the floor was one big building and not just a part of one. Angel wasn't sure how they made fluorescent lights anything less than harsh, but these ones were. Probably some of the signature Wolfram and Hart corporate magic. Small, potted plants were located along the edges of the lobby. It was luxurious and intimidating and Angel hated it. He saw it in his nightmares, sometimes.

"Boss? How'd you get off this floor? Why'd you change clothes?" came a voice that Angel also heard in his nightmares. It always made him think of the song "Barbie Girl."

He turned to face the source of the voice, a mass of blonde hair with a body attached. Harmony Kendall. Secretary to evil. "It's me, Harmony," Angel said with a sigh, preparing to grit his teeth.

"Ohmygod, Angel!" Harmony squealed. "It's been, like, forever! You haven't been here in sooooo long!"

"Yeah, I think you covered the length of time when you said 'forever'," Angel pointed out. _Forever would not be long enough to avoid this place_.

"What have you been doing?" The lightbulb went on over her head. "Oh, wait, you're still pretending to be a detective, right?"

Teeth gritting, right on schedule. "I am a detective, Harmony. I'm not pretending."

"Oh, riiiight," she winked at him conspiratorially. For some inexplicable reason, Harmony was convinced that Angel's detective career was just a front. A front for what was something only Harmony suspected, but Angel had never felt like expending the effort to really correct her on it.

"Is Angelus in his office?"

"Um, I don't know? Maybe?" She looked at him curiously. "Why do you want to know?"

"Harmony, I'm his brother, I have the right to see him." Angel could feel the migraine that Harmony always induced starting to form behind his temples. Crap, and he'd hoped to be pain-free when he'd cornered Angelus.

"But when you left last time you called him a 'scum-sucking, Satan-worshipping, bottom-feeding jackass'," Harmony reminded him, looking cheerfully curious.

"That's a form of compliment in my family. Is he in his office?"

"You have a weird family."

"Harmony!"

"Okay, okay, you should seriously chill out. Yeah, he's in there. Do you want me to call him and tell him that you're here?"

Angel glanced over at the door to Angelus' office, which was a whole fifteen feet away. "No, I think I'll just, y'know, mosey over there. Surprise him."

"Um, okay, but do you remember that one guy who surprised him and is still in a coma or something?"

"Yes." With that, Angel walked towards his brother's office.

Angelus, being aware of how important an entrance was, kept his doors well oiled. Thusly, it was very easy to throw the double doors wide open and stride in, looking pissed.

Angelus looked up from where he was sitting at his massive, imposing, black desk. His brother tended to slick his hair back, while Angel kept his up in spikes. For the people that didn't know the two of them, that was the only way to tell them apart. But those individuals that had seen the twins in the same space could always see the difference. It was something in their faces, in the postures of their bodies. Angelus screamed 'predator' with his every move, his every gesture. It was evident in the coldness of his eyes. Angelus made you pay attention to him, or else.

Angel was different. He slumped. He tried to be non-assuming. Being the center of attention terrified him. But his eyes were warm and open. Angel wanted people to like him. He was always surprised when people actually did.

"Hello, brother of mine," Angelus greeted mildly, raising an eyebrow. "What brings you here?"

"A hunch," Angel responded, crossing his arms and glaring.

"Really? How interesting." Angelus leaned back in his chair, his face a mask of pleasant surprise.

Angel took in the people standing at Angelus' desk. "Hello Eve." Great, the girl he'd had sex with after drinking the funny tasting punch at the last and only Wolfram and Hart office party he'd ever attended. _This isn't awkward_. And then there was…"Oh. You."

"Angel."

"Lindsey. How's your hand?" Angel smirked as Lindsey grimaced at him. There had been a brief misunderstanding between the two of them a few years back. At one point, they had been friends. They'd met in 1996. Angel had talked to Lindsey about his guilt, and his wishes to be free, and Lindsey had empathized. He'd been there. Lindsey had given a damn when nobody, not even Darla, had tried. And so when Angel finally took off, ran like hell from his brother and all that went with him, it had broken the younger twin's heart when Lindsey stayed behind.

Flash forward three months later and Lindsey was loyal as ever to his law firm, threatening to set Angel's plane ticket on fire. The plane ticket had been bought using nearly all of Angel's remaining money. The rest of his accounts had been frozen courtesy of Angelus, but he'd scrounged, scraped, and stolen enough to get him to Taiwan. Wolfram and Hart didn't have a Taipei branch. But if the ticket got torched, Angel was going to have to drive out of his hiding place in Austin, Texas. There was no way he could escape Wolfram and Hart's grasp that way. There were tricky things such as border patrols, money, and oceans to consider. So drastic measures had needed to be taken.

Angel liked to explain the story in simple terms. Namely, Angel had asked Lindsey to pass something over to him. Lindsey refused. Angel had become irritated. Lindsey had made angry faces and called him a traitor. Angel shot Lindsey in the hand and got his plane ticket back. In retrospect, it had all been very immature.

Returning to the present, Angel heard Lindsey answer, "Fine. Working as good as ever. Better even." The lawyer held up his hand and wiggled his fingers as proof.

After his hand had been shot, Lindsey had been unable to move it. He had no feeling, no control, no nothing. Angel might as well have cut Lindsey's had off, for all the use the lawyer could get out of it. Angelus had taken great delight in informing Angel of all of this, knowing his brother could not help but feel a dark satisfaction. The CEO had been even more cheerful when he explained that due to some special, probably illegal surgery, Lindsey was now the proud owner of two fully functioning hands. _The good stuff never lasts._

"Well, be sure and tell me if you get bored with that," Angel responded, smirking. "I'd be happy to help liven things up for you."

Lindsey scowled, eyes cold and angry. "No thanks, I don't need anymore bullet holes in my bones. Of course, if you're interested in the experience-"

"Are you two quite finished?" Angelus interrupted, sounding amused. "Lindsey, Eve, tell me about it later. My brother seems to need some help." Angelus' smirk at those words nearly as wide as Lindsey's.

"But the Senior Partners-" Eve began, looking unhappy, but Angelus cut her off quickly.

"The Senior Partners can wait, Eve." It was more effective then if he'd shouted. Eve clamped her mouth shut, nodded, shot Angel a venomous glare, and strode quickly from the office. Lindsey muttered a respectful goodbye to Angelus, sneered at Angel, and followed Eve's path out of the office, shutting the doors behind him.

"So," Angelus said, leaning back in his chair and gesturing for Angel to take a seat in front of the desk, "talk."

"You know why I'm here," Angel said, not sitting. He wasn't a business associate, he was someone who was very upset and ready to start throwing punches.

"Yes, I do, but I haven't even called you." Angelus was as maddeningly calm as ever, the malicious light gleaming in his eyes. "So either you've become psychic, or there's been an information leak. Being as how you are wearing your signature 'I Have No Idea What's Going On' face, I have to assume it's the latter of the two." He smiled. "Someone's going to need all of their fingers smashed by a hammer, I think. You know how I feel about leaks."

"You need me to play a part in one of your little schemes," Angel growled. This wasn't a game. There was nothing funny here, although Angelus tended to find humor in everything. _In most people, that's a good quality._

"Angel," Angelus smiled patronizingly, "I don't need you. Nobody really _needs_ you. Sure, you drift through life, affecting people for good, but _need_ you?" He laughed. "I suppose I could clone myself, but that would be time-consuming. So we'll just say your charming good looks are needed."

Angel hadn't had to deal with his brother's true nature for two years. (At family occasions, he played the part of the wealthy, successful, businessman who had everything. Only Kathy, the twins' little sister, had ever been able to see through his disguise completely.) It was easy to forget how insecure being around Angelus made him feel. Like all he could do was fail. Nothing he could do would ever be acceptable. _Used to feel that way around Dad. I guess he and Angelus switched places or something_. Realizing he'd become lost in bitter thought, the younger twin forced himself to pay attention. Then jerked as he replayed his brother's last statement in his mind.

"No. Hell no, emphatically!" They'd done it before. Angel would pretend to be Angelus, impersonating him for visitors and enemies. It was immensely useful for someone who had less-than-legal business, but usually ended in Angel being shot at.

"Yes. Hell yes, emphatically," Angelus replied, leaning forward as if he and Angel were sharing a secret. "This is important, brother of mine."

"You promised me!" Angel nearly screamed, leaping out of his chair and pointing an accusing finger at his brother. "You promised that you'd leave me alone. Dammit, I have a life now! I'm not a part of the Angelus rat pack anymore! I'm not doing it!" He was panting, like he'd been running a long time, and he felt almost giddy, despite the worry and fear that stayed with him always.

Angelus looked irritated, as if someone had cut him off while driving. "Y'know, Liam, I'd though we had reached a place where we understood each other. Where I didn't have to threaten your friends and family and dog to make you lend a hand in the family business." Angel would have protested that Angelus was the only one in the O'Brien clan that ran an evil law firm, but the CEO was not finished. "But no, you've reverted to idiot form, and now I have to use the stupid threat-clichés on you." Angelus sighed in annoyance and then schooled his face into a mask of hard contempt. "It would really be a shame if something were to happen to Doyle or the lovely Cordelia. Or Connor."

Ice gripped Angel's heart and ran through his veins. No. Not Connor. Not Cordelia or Doyle either, but never, ever Connor. The detective sat back down, feeling numb all of the sudden. "Leave Connor out of this."

"I gave him his new life, Angel. I found parents that would keep him safe, that would let him be a normal, happy child. I can take that away with a phonecall." It was like the CEO didn't know that he was threatening to cause considerable harm to his own nephew. It was like he didn't care.

Angel sometimes wondered whether, in the womb, Angelus had gotten all of the cunning and ambition and killer instinct, while he, guilty, sad Liam, had gotten the heart. "Damn you," Angel muttered quietly, shoulders slumping. He had lost. He had already been in the loser's bracket when the idea occurred in Angelus' mind.

"So are we agreed? You scratch my back, I continue to scratch yours?" Angelus sounded human again, simply discussing a normal business deal with his brother.

"Yes," Angel agreed quietly, refusing to look up and instead studying his shoes. There was a bit of dirt on the left one. It made Angel twitch a little. He like cleanliness.

"Good," Angelus said cheerfully. "And don't worry, the target in this one is a real scumbag. You'll be doing the world a favor in helping me eliminate him, trust me."

"I'm sure," muttered Angel emotionlessly.

He heard his brother sigh, get up, and walk to stand in front of Angel. Grudgingly, the younger twin met his brother's eyes. Angelus looked good, like he always did. Healthy L.A. tan, highlights, Hugo Boss suit that seemed to repel lint and creases. Angel was pale, because he only ever seemed to go out at night anymore. He was dressed in faded black jeans, a black T-shirt, and his black leather coat. The only reason his clothes didn't have wrinkles was because he was had a diagnosed case of obsessive-compulsive disorder and was compelled to make his clothing perfect. _God, Angelus even looks like he's better than me, and we're identical twins_.

"For what it's worth, Angel, I'm sorry that you have to give up being the good little martyr for the time being. But there's no way I can pull this off without you." It was very rare indeed for Angelus to admit that he legitimately needed someone else's help, and he sounded sincere. Angel felt marginally better. He berated himself even more because of it.

Angelus, seeing that Angel was not going to return from his brooding state, rolled his eyes and grabbed an envelope from his desk. "I have a present for you."

_Oh, present_. When Angelus did gift, he gifted well. "Does it explode?"

"No, my dear brother, it is perfectly safe. My only advice is don't get it near an open flame, but that's because the contents are flammable."

Angel realized what was in the envelope and felt some of his depression lift. Not all, but some. Some was enough. He took the envelope from Angelus' hand and put in his coat pocket, careful not to fold it.

"Be packed by tomorrow and report here at 10 PM," Angelus ordered. "You're catching the red-eye flight out of L.A."

Irritation at his brother returned full-force. "You're rich, why the hell can't I get a flight in the afternoon?"

"Because the private jet is being used for other things in the afternoon, you twit."

Ah. Despite the continued unhappy noises he made, Angel like the private jet very much. This did not make up for being forced back into the very dangerous life that he thought he'd escaped from, but it was a start.

Back in his car, Angel opened the envelope. Several pictures fell out of a lanky, shaggy-haired, little boy. The boy was seven years old. He liked soccer and pepperoni pizza. His favorite color was green and his favorite animal was a tiger. To the government, his parents, and himself, his name was Steven Reilly. To Angel, he was Connor O'Brien. His son.

When Daniel Holtz had shown up in Sunnydale, it had driven home to Angel that it was impossible to escape the past. If Connor was to live, to grow up as a happy, healthy, well-adjusted boy, he could not grow up as Angel's boy. And he knew of only one person that could give Connor a completely new life. Angelus. That was why Angel would never completely remove himself from his brother's control. All the CEO had to do was threaten to take away Connor's happy life and Angel would do whatever was asked of him. It was worth it.

But Angelus showed occasional flashes of humanity. The pictures were one of those flashes. They had begun coming a few months after Connor had been adopted. Angelus mailed them to Angel most of the time. They were professional quality pictures, something that a detective recognized instantly. Angel wondered whether the person hired to tail Connor ever became annoyed at following around a seven–year-old and his parents.

There were pictures of Connor at Chucky Cheese. Pictures of Connor on the playground. Pictures of Connor playing with his puppy. Sometimes there were notes scribbled on the back of them, which Angel loved because they gave him little insights into what Connor loved. Like tigers, or the color green. Twice a year, he received a report card with the pictures. Connor was smart and well behaved, and got on well with the other children. Angel always felt a fierce parental pride when he read the teacher's comments.

Angel kept the pictures in a book that no one knew about. It lived in his room, most of the time. On the days when he'd been following around cheating husbands and wives, when he passed homeless people and didn't bother to glance at them, when he tracked down debtors so that bookies and drug-dealers could force them to pay, Angel would pull out the book. He'd stare at his son who would never have to do the things his father did, and that made him happier then anything else.

There wasn't much that he'd done that could be considered truly good. Angel had lived a bad life, a hard life. But he had taken his son away from that life. He loved his son and he had given him up. That was the one truly, irrevocably noble thing Angel had ever done. It made him feel like maybe he was good and worthy of forgiveness.

He'd take the book with him when he went on this mission for Angelus. He'd probably need it.


	3. Chapter 3

Part: 3? Disclaimer: Even AU they don't belong to me 

Feedback: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

Summary: AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.

Author's Note: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. _Italics_ indicate thought and the occasional flashback.

A/N Part 2: Yeesh, this chapter turned out huge. Also, not sure how to go about finding a beta, so I'm looking here :D It shouldn't be too hard, I usually have a good eye for punctuation and such, but I've been making some embarrassing typos as of late. Just e-mail me if anyone is interested.

_June 12, 2005 _ _8: 22 PM_

_The Hyperion Hotel_

The roof of the Hyperion had many benefits. The lights, for one. The City of Angels shone at night, far more beautiful than anything Los Angeles could muster in the daytime hours. Little pinpoints of white and yellow glow, coming from every type of building imaginable. Churches and porn studios, corporate empires and homeless shelters, they all looked equally lovely under the blanket of the L.A. night. Angel would have said that the lights in the darkened city rivaled the stars in the black sky, except all of that illumination drowned out any starlight. In imitating the stars, L.A. had lost them forever. The detective found something bittersweet in that and he'd caught himself brooding on it more than once.

There was also the total lack of people on rooftops. Angel enjoyed that immensely. It wasn't that he hated people, and no, he was not as antisocial as a serial killer, which had been implied more than once by a couple of different individuals. It was just that he'd lived in Angelus' shadow since the day he was born and instead of going out and learning the skills necessary to connect with people, Angel had been busy watching his brother do that. He'd never had any real reason to learn to communicate with others because everyone he'd met had always been involved with Angelus, dammit. Darla had been the exception and Darla had turned out disastrously.

Unfortunately, Angel now had to make it on his own and he was still, as Cordelia had so eloquently put it, "as socially retarded as ever." But he _was_ starting getting better. Doyle and Cordelia said so. Being a detective forced him to come in contact with other human beings outside of his tiny circle of friends and he had to admit that it was doing him a world of good. Still, there were times that Angel preferred to just be alone.

To other people, the spiky-haired brunette's habit of perching on the edges of rooftops was very disconcerting, but Angel had never felt any need to worry. He knew his own body. He knew what it could do. The life of a hit man is one that tends to involve walking softly and balancing carefully. Angel had kept himself in good shape even if his life no longer depended on it. The edges of buildings? Good places to sit and think. Snakes, spiders, or crocodiles? Interesting pets and great conversation starters. Being trapped in small, dark spaces? Irritating, but a good excuse to get night vision goggles. It had occurred to Angel more than once that most of the things that frightened other people did nothing to rattle him. _That's one of the few perks, I guess_.

"Go out there!" he heard Cordelia hiss to Doyle. Angel knew from experience that they would be standing just outside of the door to the rooftop. There was a small vent on the wall next to the door that connected to the outside world, and on windless nights like tonight, it was possible to hear someone at the door very clearly.

"No! You know he sits on that ledge! What if I startle him or something and he falls off!" Doyle's Irish accent thickened slightly in his annoyance. Angel shifted on the ledge, smirking in amusement.

"You're just scared to tell him that you didn't learn anything about those P.T.B. people! Quit being a baby and get out there!"

"Yeah? What have you done today, Princess, besides wring your hands and mutter about how they were probably," Doyle pitched his voice high, " 'torturing him right now and that bastard Angelus will probably send us an ear in a box or something gross like that and who will give me a job if Angel gets all dismembered!'" Doyle's voice returned to normal. "You're so worried, you go talk to him first!"

"You guys," Angel called out, deciding to give them a break, "come on out."

There was total silence from the door for a moment, then it opened so Doyle and Cordelia could walk out sheepishly. "It's creepy when you do that," Cordelia muttered, coming to stand by him.

"_How_ do you do that?" Doyle asked, following her.

"I'm superhuman," Angel responded dismissively. "What's up?"

"Don't you 'what's up' us, mister!" Cordelia scowled. Nobody scowled like Cordy. "Some mysterious guy comes and visits and then you go off to see your brother? Something huge is up, and everyone knows it."

"She's right, man," Doyle added, leaning on the ledge. "You've been lurking out here for a long time now. You're deep in thought about something nasty."

Angel was surprised to find out that time had moved so quickly. He'd originally only planned to watch the sunset after adding the pictures to his Connor Book, but had gotten caught up in watching L.A. come alive in the darkness. "Sorry."

The sober apology seemed to deflate Cordelia's righteous anger. "How bad is it?"

Angel held Cordelia in the same loving, protective place that he held his sister. He didn't want her to know how scared he was. "I have to go away for awhile. He didn't say anything about bringing me back full-time, though."

"What is it?" Doyle asked, face unreadable.

"He didn't say anything about that, either. I'm leaving a ten o'clock tomorrow night. I think he wants to get me where I'm going as soon as he can, to make sure I don't skip town."

"Maybe you should," the Irishman suggested quietly. His eyes were filled with worry. Angel stared at him in disbelief for a moment. Doyle understood what Angelus was capable of and knew what could happened if Angel said no.

"He would come after you guys."

"I'm up for a road trip!" Cordelia said brightly, nudging Doyle with her elbow. "Doyle, wouldn't a road trip be fun?"

"Yeah, I hear, uh, Canada's nice this time of year," Doyle smiled.

Angel smiled too, despite his sadness. Without his friends, there was no way that he would be where he was. He needed them, and wondered if he was actually co-dependent or just very lonely. Shortly after Angel had taken his last (supposed) job for Angelus, he'd seen the bottoms of more bottles in a two-month period than in his entire life. He'd been in the process of drowning his sorrows yet again and rambling about his ex-girlfriends, in the way that lonely drunks are prone to doing. That was when he'd first seen Doyle. More specifically, Doyle had gotten up from the corner booth and stared hard at Angel for a very long moment, before telling the drunken brunette that they needed to talk.

-_Why?" Angel slurred, focusing his bloodshot eyes on the shorter man. _

_"Because I've been dreaming about you," was Doyle's completely serious response._

_Now, Angel could work up an impressive drunk when he wanted to, and now was one of those times, but he was lucid enough to remember that he was not really in a good position to start a relationship. Crappy apartment, no job, rarely sober. Also, he remembered that open-mindedness aside, when he took some home they tended to be a.) blonde and b.) female._

How does the 'No offense, I'm sure you're nice, but I'm not a good person to date and also I'm not gay' speech go again? _Angel thought fuzzily, before realizing he had just said it all in his head. Opening his mouth to repeat it out loud, he'd been interrupted by the Irishman._

_"You dolt, I'm not trying to get a date with you." Doyle sounded slightly exasperated. "But c'mon, walk with me. Let some nice smog sober you up a little and then we can have a discussion that doesn't involving grunting."-_

And that's exactly what happened. Doyle had explained to Angel that he wasn't crazy, but he did occasionally have dreams, "visions, if you like", that showed him people.

"I don't know what it is, really," Doyle had confessed. "I'm not psychic and I can't let ya talk to your dear old dead granny, but I see people sometimes and know that they need help. I saw you. And you, my staggering friend, need a world o' help."

At first Angel had thought that Doyle was either a nutcase or a scam artist, but Cordelia had proven him wrong. Very wrong, in fact. Doyle had seen Cordelia the next night and insisted that Angel come along to check out the situation. Hungover and lacking anything better to do with his time, Angel had agreed to come. Cordelia was instantly recognizable as one of Buffy's former classmates and sort-of-not-really friend. Almost pathetically eager to see a familiar face even said face had no idea he was there, Angel had followed Cordelia as she followed a (much) older man into a huge mansion.

-_He and Doyle crouched outside the bushes. The sharp branches were scratching him painfully and his knees were getting muddy. Not that it would show up well on his black jeans, but it was the principal of the thing. He would need to take even longer tonight to make sure everything was clean and orderly. _

_"Okay," Doyle observed after a moment, staring up at the mansion. "You have to break in."_

_"What!" Angel hissed, irritation rising up into the level of pissed off. "I am not breaking into a house that probably has a thousand dollar security system so I can catch an old acquaintance making out on a couch with an old guy! That's just disturbing to _think_ about!"_

_"She's in trouble," Doyle murmured, meeting Angel's eyes with his calm blue stare. "When the girl turns up missing tomorrow or the next day, how will you feel then?"_

_"You're nuts." He didn't need jail time on top of all the other crap he was dealing with. It was too damn much, and he was going home. "You break in, if you're so convinced of her impending doom."_

_"I'm no' the one who's life has no purpose," Doyle responded, Irish accent becoming heavier as his emotions became more turbulent. Later on, Angel, whose family had moved from the Emerald Isle when he was one, would refer to the Doyle's magically thickening accent as 'getting his Irish up'._

_Angel's brows drew together in surprise and a little bit of hurt. "That's a little harsh," he muttered reproachfully. "Just because I haven't gotten myself in order-"_

_"Left on your own, you'd die of alcohol poisoning," Doyle stated matter-of-factly. "Just like left on her own, that lovely little Cordelia girl is going to end up as one more cold case in the police files. Your choice, man." With that, Doyle got up, dusted himself off, and walked back to the car._

_The bushes they'd been crouching in were just outside the mansion, looking in through the fence but just out of view of the guardhouse. Angel glanced at the guard. It was one man, sort of plump, who was ignoring the security monitors in favor of watching something on the small, portable TV. Professionally speaking, Angel could have taken him out in a heartbeat. _

_It was then that Liam O'Brien, renamed Angel and nicknamed the Angel of Death, had a revelation. He had all of the skills and knowledge of a professional enforcer, assassin, and all-around bad ass. But he could use those skills that he had so painfully acquired for good. To help people. He was not sure if it was his own depression or the whiskey that he'd been consuming like air that had prevented him from realizing this earlier._

_"My God," Angel muttered. "I could do it." He could. Or he could try, at least. That could be his redemption. Of course, it was impossible to get back the years he'd lost or replace the lives he'd taken in service of Angelus. But maybe he could pay back some of the debt. Maybe the guilt that made his shoulders slump and his eyes hollow could be lessened or even alleviated. Maybe he could be the good guy, for once. _

_"Okay," the brunette man said, staring at his new sidekick in the car, "how the hell do I do this?"-_

What followed was this: Angel performed an impressive bit of breaking and entering, just in time to see a Mr. Russell Winters coming at Cordelia with a knife. Angel, being an old pro at dealing with knife-wielding assassins, kicked Mr. Winters through a window. Cordelia had been ready to sell her first born to him in thanks, and together they came up with a suitable story to tell the police. The bodies of several different girls from various decades were found in refrigerators in the basement of Mr. Winters' home. He would have been facing a staggering amount of criminal charges, but his fall from the window had resulted in severe spinal injury and brain damage, tragically leaving the millionaire in a vegetative state. "A real shame, that," Doyle had remarked in satisfaction.

Eventually, mostly due to Cordelia's nagging, Angel had opened Angel Investigations for business. The feeling of having friends, and a purpose, and a job, could still make Angel smile three years later.

"I appreciate the offer, guys, really," he held up his hands to stop the protests, "but it's better I do this. I already said I would. And you know how Angelus gets about people who break deals."

_June 13, 2005_

_9:02 PM_

_The lobby of the Hyperion Hotel_

Cordelia and Doyle watched as Angel carried the last of his suitcases to his car, which had been moved from its normal spot to a more accessible one directly outside. Neither of them had offered to help. Helping would make Angel's leaving more real.

He might have thought that he was the only one who had become a better person because of the formation of this trio, but he'd have been wrong there. Doyle and Cordelia both felt more useful working for Angel then they had at any point before.

Francis Doyle had avoided responsibility for as long as he could, especially after he and his wife had gotten divorced. But after dreaming of a person who was drowning in his own guilt and pain for a week straight, it was hard not to seek out the source. And, the Irishman was surprised to learn, it wasn't so bad, being responsible. Making his money from working instead of gambling and betting on the dog races was something he hadn't done for a long while. It was worth it, though.

Cordelia had not been ready to deal with being poor. Damn IRS. Damn IRS raids. She was ashamed to admit-not that she ever would actually say it out loud or anything-that she would have slept with Russell Winters if it meant not having to bring food home from parties so she could eat it later on. But Angel, Mr. Salty Goodness himself, had saved her. He had discovered he was good at saving people, and Cordelia felt that she did her part by pointing out the obvious and boosting morale. And sometimes filing. How cool was it to basically earn money for hanging around the office and typing? Of course, they also helped to protect people and nab cheating spouses and stuff, which was of the good.

Angel was leaving them. They understood that his pain was something that they couldn't comprehend completely, that his guilt was something that he would never rid himself of fully, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there before the two of them had come along. Angel was their pet project, and if his mission was to save people, then their mission was to help him save those people and himself in the process.

But even they understood Angelus. It seemed like when you knew one twin, you would inevitably come to know the other. So it didn't matter how much Doyle joked and Cordelia pouted, Angel's employees both knew that their boss and friend was leaving them and that he might be gone for months. They knew he might not come back at all.

"So," Angel said, arms crossed and standing in the doorway, looking a bit like a puppy that knew he was in trouble but was trying to be cute enough to avoid a scolding, "I guess this is goodbye."

That was Cordelia's breaking point. She flung herself across the lobby and hugged him so hard that it knocked the breath from his lungs. "This is not goodbye!" the pretty brunette protested loudly. "Goodbye means we won't see you again and you are most definitely coming back. This is more 'See you later, I'm bringing home presents'. Hopefully, Senor Creepy is sending you someplace where you can at least get a decent tan. I'm rearranging your closet while you're gone. Prepare to return to bright colors and flannel." Her point made, Cordelia released him, sniffling. Angel wiped his eyes quickly, trying not to make it seem obvious.

Doyle and Angel embraced in a much more manly fashion, but they still had that irritating moisture leaking from their eyes. "Can't say whether or not we can keep on with the people-saving without you, friend o' mine," Doyle muttered as he and Angel separated.

Angel frowned at his friend. Doyle had confided in the detective that he didn't think he had much of a shot at being the big savior. _-"I'm more of a wisecracking sidekick, really."-_

"You'd probably be better at it then me," Angel smiled, Doyle's image blurring in his vision. He was not going to cry. He was most definitely NOT going to cry. "You're not weighed down with the weight of the world."

"You're the champion, Angel, not me." Doyle grinned lopsidedly.

Seriously and soberly, Angel responded, "You never know until you're tested." Looking down, he shook his head and hugged them both again. Amidst thinly controlled tears and promises to call if it was safe, Angel left his hotel. He took one last look at his home, his office, the only thing that was well and truly his.

He got to the freeway before the tears finally spilled down his face. _Better to get it out now_, the detective thought as he wiped his face. _No weakness in the lion's den_. By the time he was at Wolfram and Hart, it looked as if he'd never been crying at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part**: 4? **Disclaimer**: Even AU they don't belong to me 

**Feedback**: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

**Summary:**AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.

**Author's Note**: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. _Italics_ indicate thought.

**A/N 2**: I have no idea what the time change would be from L.A. to Michigan, so bear with me if you think it seems wonky.

_June 14_

_12: 13 AM_

_Capital City Airport, Lansing, Michigan_

A small pile of miniature Jack Daniels bottle and an indent in his seat were all Angel left behind as he exited one of the Wolfram and Hart jets. As he descended the ramp leading from the door of the plane to the ground, the detective tried his best not to throw up. The entire way over, Angel had avoided looking out the window of the plane. He hated flying. It wasn't right, being up that high. It also didn't help that on one of the times in the past when Angelus had dragged himfrom one location to another at will, Angel had asked what was keeping their plane up. His brother's response? "Updraft and a prayer." Not at all comforting.

Sitting on the bottom of the stairs for a moment, trying to get his nausea in order, Angel watched as the baggage handlers carried his luggage into the terminal. He wondered why they had to, exactly. There were only his three suitcases, about five other bags that contained things Angelus had thought would be important, and his duffel bag filled with, er, useful things, like machetes and a few handguns. Angel knew by now that no Wolfram and Hart employee would ever get any police trouble for carrying weapons, even onto planes. The firm was good like that. Or evil, depending on the perspective.

Finally feeling as if he wasn't going to vomit Jack Daniels and Saltine crackers all over the tarmac, Angel got up, swung his backpack over his shoulder, and walked up to the doors of the terminal. Private jets, even the Wolfram and Hart private jet, didn't get those cool walkway thingies. Too bad, because Angel really would have preferred it to walking through the business of the tarmac. The shouts of men and the distant roar of the planes, combined with a myriad of other noises that the brunette couldn't identify, made his ears ache and very possibly bleed. That, plus the fact the fact that he was the only person on the entire stretch of black tarmac who wasn't in an airport uniform, made him feel an overwhelming sort of uncomfortable. _Damn you, Angelus. Damn you to the fiery depths of Hell, where you will suffer an eternity of flames and sharp things poking you_. It had been Angel's mantra over the past few hours,even afterthe older twin had explained the mission.

_-"Good, I thought you were going to chicken out for a while there." Angelus smiled as his brother scowled at him. When Angel felt like it, his scowl could peel paint. But Angelus had always been immune to it, and that was sadly the case now._

_"You could have sent someone down to help me carry my stuff, you asshole," Angel snapped. He was sure he'd been a very amusing sight as he tried to carry all three of his suitcases and his backpack across the lobby of Wolfram and Hart without dropping anything._

_"If you wouldn't pack so much crap every time you traveled, you wouldn't need help," Angelus said dismissively. His arms were crossed across his chest and he was leaning against the desk, as casual as ever._

_"Says the guy who once packed all of the clothing he owned to go on vacation," retorted Angel, sitting on the arm of a chair across from his brother._

_Angelus rolled his eyes to indicate that Angel was irreversibly stupid. Angel flipped himthe bird. It was common ground for the two brothers. _

_"So, do you have anything to tell me or are you just going to move the air around all night?" Angel asked, crossing his arms in a mirror image of his brother, until he caught himself. Mimicking his brother was something to be avoided at all costs. It was for that purpose that he'd worn blue jeans and a button-down red shirt. He had known Angelus would probably be wearing a dark suit, because both the twins had a fondness for the dark colors. _Sometimes it's worth it to go against your nature, just to surprise your brother.

_Angelus smirked at him. "Walk with me, kiddo." The CEO walked through the doors of his office into the hallways. Angel was irritated, but followed his brother anyway. He soon recognized that they were heading towards the roof._

_"Why are we going to the roof?" _

_"Because." _

'Oh, look at me, I'm Angelus. I'm cryptic and annoying and think I'm God'_, Angel mocked in his mind. __"Why can't we stay in your office?" the younger twin asked out loud, wanting to be walking side-by-side with his brother. Walking behind Angelus made him feel like a minion or something._

_"Because the roof will help me illustrate my point," the CEO answered, sounding annoyed at Angel's question._

_"Why can't you use a picture to illustrate your point?"_

_Angelus spun suddenly, grabbed Angel by the lapels of his shirt, and dragged their faces very close together. He smelled like mint and cinnamon and cologne, and the younger twin wondered briefly if he smelled the same way. Angel didn't struggle, didn't try to get away at, just hung there in his brother's grasp even as his brain screamed at him to move._

_"The walls have ears, smart one," Angelus hissed, cold brown eyes boring into Angel with crushing force. Angel nodded gently, understanding. Angelus was worried about listening devices. Whatever the older twin was about to say, he didn't want it to get back to the Senior Partners. For the first time, the detective became curious about what his assignment was._

_"And lose the backpack," Angelus advised, releasing Angel and smoothing out his shirt absent-mindedly. "It makes you look stupid."_

_"No," Angel responded simply, clutching his backpack a little closer to him. This was the backpack with all the important things. The Connor Book. Buffy's class ring. Darla's wedding ring. Pictures of Doyle and Cordy. His signed Barry Manilow CD . These were things he wasn't willing to leave alone, even for a second. Plus, because Angel was a masochist and felt compelled to be a fool, there was a picture of himself and Angelus when they were ten tossed in there. It had been their birthday. Angelus had his arm slung around Angel's shoulders and they'd both been grinning from ear to ear. It had been a good day. Angelus had been nice, sharing his presents and making jokes _with_ Angel, instead of about him. Dad had been smiling and Mom had been alive._

_Present day Angelus shook his head and the twins continued on to the stairs in silence. When they did get to the roof, Angel took a deep breath. Up on top of the building, the air seemed clearer._

_"You realize you just breathed a big lungful of smog?" Angelus asked. Angel took another deep breath to show he didn't care. The CEO ignored this and walked to the edge of the roof, staring at the buildings beneath and above them._

_"Look at this," Angelus gestured at the city sprawled out marvelously beneath them. Angel looked at his brother curiously. He'd had no idea that the older twin noticed how lovely L.A. was at night. They had a goodview of one of the freeways, which looked like a long neon ribbon of yellow and red light. "L.A. The City of Angels. A powerful city. A beautiful city, at night anyway." Angelus clenched his hands into fists. "_My_ city."_

_"If you're here to tell me 'Someday all this will be yours, my son', I'm gonna push you," Angel warned. _

_Angelus whirled on him, looking dangerously angry. That scared Angel. Angelus was the master of controlling his emotions, at never letting anyone in on how he was feeling. If Angelus looked angry, he had to be truly pissed off._

_"Don't make jokes, you little bastard. This is not the time for jokes." Angelus was backing him slowly towards the edge and Angel wondered if he was about to die._

_"Okay, right." The detective stopped moving and held up his hands in a placating gesture. "No more jokes. What's going on?"_

_Angelus stopped trying to walk his brother off the building and took a deep breath, hands unclenching. "I'm sorry," the CEO muttered, which nearly caused Angel to have heart failure. Angelus was apologizing for something? This was serious. _

_"What's going on?" Angel repeated._

_Angelus had his back to his brother, staring out at the city. When Angel came and stood beside him, he noticed that his brother looked strangely sad. "You're going to Michigan, Angel," Angelus stated emotionlessly._

_"What's in Michigan?"_

_"A town called Redgrass." Angelus grimaced a little around the name._

_"Never heard of it."_

_The CEO took a deep breath, and Angel knew that it was now officially storytime. "You aren't supposed to have. It's one of those tiny little towns that sprung up all along the banks of the Great Lakes. Lake Michigan, to be precise. Seven years ago, a man named Marcus Hamilton moved in and started buying the entire town, piece by piece."_

_Angel blinked. What did this have to do with anything? "What does this have to do with anything?"_

_"Angel, if you would just stop asking questions every time your small yet perfectly formed brain becomes confused, you would probably find out the answers much quicker." When Angel glared but remained silent, Angelus continued. "Anyway,Hamilton bought up _all _the land eventually, forcing a whole bunch of people to move, most of them not exactly willingly."_

_"How'd he make them move? BBTC?" Angel asked, using their code for 'Blackmail, Bribery, Threats, and Coercion'._

_"Yep. Once he had most of the town gone, he started populating it with his own people. Pretty soon, he had a town full of drug runners, arms dealers, and pimps. Thatwas when he started shipping things in through the Great Lakes network."_

_"What about customs?" Angel asked, sitting down on the ledge. _

_Angelus looked at the movement for a second, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. After taking a deep drag, he explained, "They're shipping under the name of a legitimate company, which helps keep customs of their backs. Whoever is left behind and still suspicious either gets paid off or found at the bottom of one of the lakes._

"_Hamilton has an empire up there. No one else can bring as much as he does and get it circulating as quickly as his people do. Everyday, he gets more guns, or drugs, or people via the St. Lawrence Seaway." _

"_People?" Angel asked, knowing he probably meant prostitutes but unwilling to think about innocent people being crammed in the bowels of a ship. He'd had to travel unknown in a ship once or twice, and always remembered it as a miserable experience as he crouched in the cold, dark space. It was very cold in the Great Lakes region, and metal was not a great source of warmth in the freezing waters._

"_Hookers, mostly, from the Bahamas or Europe. Sometimes Russia. Most of them are there because they're forced to be, and some of them get sold as sex slaves." Angelus took another drag on the cigarette, never taking his eyes off the city below him. "I told you this guy was a scumbag."_

"_You're no saint yourself, Angelus."_

_His brother shot him a cold look. "I don't sell people into slavery, Angel."_

"_Fair enough. But what does that have to do with you or me?"_

_Angelus looked down, letting the cigarette burn down until it nearly scorched his fingers. He flipped the butt over the roof and pulled out another cigarette. Angel was becoming worried now. Angelus was one of those incredibly irritating people who could smoke all the time but never _needed_ a cigarette. To see him start to chain-smoke was to see him start to panic._

"_Hamilton is the guy you go to if you want drugs, guns, or whores for the entire Midwest and Northeast area of the United States. He makes money by the boatload and has an entire town dedicated to his business, with the exception of a few people." The CEO closed his eyes and sighed. "The Senior Partners are very impressed with him. Eve…Eve told me that if he kept on making profits the way he does, they might want to make him a part of the Wolfram and Hart team." _

_Angel was still confused, but knew his brother well enough to know that Angelus was about to get to the point. Wait, had Angelus just shuddered? That was crazy talk. Angelus didn't shake or shudder or jump with fright. _

_Another cigarette was lit and another drag was taken before the older twin spoke again. "Eve likes me, you see. Or at least, she likes me more than she likes Hamilton. And that's why she brought word that…that if he was made an employee of Wolfram and Hart, they would want to him to take over operations in a slightly warmer climate."_

_Angel nearly fell off the roof. He'd thought his heart had frozen before? That had been nothing. That had been a mild frost. It was different now. He felt dread and terror and panic grip him like claws, sink so deep within him that it felt as if they'd always been there. It was like he had ice in his veins and fire in his gut. _

"_If they hire Hamilton," he said out loud, just needing to hear the words aloud to be able to accept them as true, "they will give him your job. They'll fire you."_

"_What do you think, little brother? I've served them well and long, do you think they'll make me swim with the fishes, or will I end up in the dog food plant? I'd rather not have my eyes eaten out by little sharks, but at the same time, beingmunched by Paris Hilton's dog doesn't fill me with anticipation either." Angelus laughed, and it sounded like a sob. It was the first time Angel had ever heard that laugh._

_The detective might not have had his brother's capacity for evil schemes, but he was no fool. He knew that the only reason he and Connor were still alive was because of Angelus. People didn't leave them employ of Wolfram and Hart except in body bags. If Angelus wasn't around to keep the law firm away from Angel's family, no one would be able to. Also, although he probably wouldn't admit it aloud, he didn't exactly want his brother to die. Stop being evil, maybe, but not die._

"_I'm not an idiot. I know I'm going to Hell one day." Angelus turned to face his brother and his eyes were on fire with fear and anger and desperation. And maybe, just maybe, a hint of pleading. "But I'm not ready to go yet. You think I'm a sociopath? Well Marcus Hamilton was crafted by the Prince of Darkness himself, and if he kills me, you are next. You're a loose end, and Hamilton hates loose ends. It won't just be you, either. It'll be Connor and Cordelia and Doyle. It'll be Dad and Kathy and all your little friends in Sunnydale. Definitely Darla, if he finds her."_

"_I get it," Angel ground out through gritted teeth. "He's a thorough kind of guy. So what are you going to do about it?"_

"_Very simple." Angelus took one, final drag on his cigarette and tossed if over the side of the building. He was wearing his killer smirk. "The Senior Partners think he looks like a golden boy? We dirty him up. We leave his town in chaos and we bring his company to its knees. We make sure he's a threat to no one. I have a hand-picked team of people who will help you do just that." The smirk grew wider. "And the best part is? The Senior Partners don't know how it happened, because we cover our tracks."_

_Angel couldn't help but be impressed. "Not bad. But they already know you needed me for something. How do you explain that?"_

"_Simple. I needed you to do some surveillance on someone somewhere. There are records showing that you did your job and went home. As far as they know, you are officially disassociated with Wolfram and Hart once again."_

_The detective felt like his world had gone cockeyed. Angelus being desperate, on the verge of being fired? Working to bring down someone more evil than the people he was working for? It was too strange, and if Angel didn't regain his sense of balance, he wouldn't be able to work. "You're still just in it to save your own ass, when it comes right down to it," Angel stated. If he stopped seeing his brother as a person on whom he could focus his blame, then he might start to blame himself. For not having the strength to stand up sooner. For not being strong. And if he went down that path, Angel knew he would be crippling himself. _

_Fortunately, Angelus gave the right response, the required response. "Of course I am. Now lets get you on a plane."-_

The airport was not all that busy. It was still bustling by some standards, but it was early in the morning and there were a lot of people sleeping in seats instead of walking around. Angel sat himself by the baggage carousel to wait for his things to come around, wondering again whythe luggagehad to be put through it. He glanced surreptitiously around the terminal. Angelus was supposed to have someone waiting for him.

_-"How will I know he's from Wolfram and Hart?" Angel shouted over the sound of the plane engines._

_Angelus was wearing his 'I have a secret that will really piss you off' smirk. "Oh you'll know."-_

But there was no sign of anyone familiar. Angel was considering pulling out his CD player and listening to some _Mandy_ to sooth his nerves when a horribly familiar voice spoke behind him. "Bloody hell, I thought I recognized that hair."

Angel whirled so fast that his back nearly went out. Standing there in a long leather coat and ripped black jeans, was William 'Spike' Harrington. The detective was actually unable to form words, but he was fairly certain his jaw was two inches off the floor.

"Wassa matter, Peaches? Cat got your tongue?"

**TBC**

(Post-Note: If there is actually a Redgrass, Michigan, then I offer my apologies. Unless of course your town really is run by a pimp/drug lord/arms dealer, in which case you should totally e-mail me about it.)


	5. Chapter 5

Part: 5? **Disclaimer**: Even AU they don't belong to me 

**Feedback**: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

**Summary**:AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.

**Author's Note**: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. _Italics_ indicate thought

_June 14_

_12: 30 AM_

_Capital City Airport, Lansing, Michigan_

The only sound that Angel seemed to be able to make was 'Spike', repeated over and over again. It wasn't that Angel didn't have more to say. Had his brain not been frying at the implications of Spike standing in front of him in some airport in Michigan, he probably would have said a variety of different things. Things ranging from unrepeatable obscenities to a standard 'What in the hell are you doing here?' to 'So you still have that duster.' But it had been a long day, and Angel did not have the hard-wired sarcastic response that both Spike and his brother possessed. Hence the gawking and repeating.

"Yes, you absolute git, it is I. Spike. Now would you stop saying my name? It's getting on my nerves." Spike looked fairly relaxed, if not a little irritated at Angel's helpless confusion. For all of the changes that Angel had gone through mentally and emotionally since he'd last seen the blonde man, the detective was aware that he hadn't changed much.

But Spike was a completely different story. He'd taken out the piercings, for one. The bleached blonde had once seemed to get a new piercing every week or so, often because he would remove the ear/lip/tongue/eyebrow/etc. ring, get drunk, and forget to put it back in, causing the hole to close up. But now Spike was piercing free. His hair was also slicked back, whereas before it had been gelled up into spikes even taller than Angel's. People had taken to calling them the Hair Twins for a while, because their styles were so similar. That had amused both Spike and Angel to no end.

"You're…here," Angel finally managed to stammer out. His backpack had slumped to the floor and he felt as if he was also about to crumple into a heap, like a puppet with its strings cut.

"Still has observant as ever, Peaches," Spike quipped, shifting around a little. _He can't hold still. He's never been able to hold still. _

January 16, 1997 had found Angel sitting alone in his apartment, bottle of good Irish whiskey in one hand, TV remote in the other. He'd taken to watching his TV muted, because he had been unable to deal with people talking. But the pretty colors had been a welcome distraction. Christmas had come and passed, and four days after what was supposed to be the celebration of peace on earth and goodwill towards men, Angel had killed his first person for Angelus. Jared Keeper, client that would not pay up. A message to other clients who were considering pinching their pennies.

Angel had refused to come out of his apartment after that, instead hoping that he could drink himself into a coma. So imagine his surprise when a short man with peroxide blonde hair opened the door and stood in front of Angel, completely blocking his view of the TV.

The brunette man, drunk and guilty and very disorientated, had asked in confusion, "Billy Idol? What are _you _doing here?"

When Angel had regained consciousness, Spike was sitting next to him on the couch. And that had been the first fight the two of them had ever had. So began their illustrious career as partners. Apparently, Angelus had cottoned on to the fact that Angel was not so good at dealing with guilt, but did not want to lose him as an assassin. So the older twin had come up with the perfect solution (in his mind, anyway). Give Angel a partner, someone who would kick him back into shape and help him on jobs. Mostly with the actual killing parts, if they happened.

Spike and Angel had quickly realized something important. They did not get along. Anything they could disagree about, they would. Music, art, religion, books, TV. And other, less intelligent things.

Back in present day Michigan, Angel was still grasping for words at seeing his old partner here after so long. So he said the first thing that came to mind. "Astronauts win." Ah, that fight they had actually come to blows over.

Spike scowled at him. "Are you still so completely stupid? I'd have thought maybe you'd grown wiser. Cavemen kick arse, any day."

"Yeah, because guys that live in caves and bang rocks together for fire could outsmart people trained by NASA." Angel rolled his eyes, before realizing that all of the sudden, he felt normal again. Scowling to match Spike, Angel muttered, "I'm going to _kill_ Angelus."

"Get in line," Spike snorted. "Do ya think they'd let me smoke in here?"

"No," Angel answered, still angry. Either Angelus was deliberately trying to piss him off, some sort of 'Take a long look, Angel, I still own your past' type of thing, or the CEO was trying to make his brother feel more comfortable. Both of the possibilities made Angel very upset.

Spike was giving him an amused look. "You look like you might actually kill the Chairman of the Boring, if he was here."

"I probably would," Angel sighed. "I assume you're my partner for this?"

"One of 'em anyway, yeah." Spike grinned and nudged Angel with his foot. "You 'n me, together again. Hope and Crosby. Stills and Nash. Chico and the-"

"Are you done?" Angel groused. He didn't like having people from his past just pop up like this. It was startling.

This actually caused Spike to laugh. "Still as friendly as ever. What're you waiting around for, anyway?"

"My luggage."

"Huh?" the blonde looked confused. "Why did they even need to put it through this thing anyway?" A suspicious look was turned on him. "Did you pack all the clothes you owned again?"

"That was Angelus, not me!" Angel protested hotly. "And I didn't pack all that much."

"Really? 'Cause, no offense or anything, Peaches, but you pack like a girl. Have to bring the makeup and the accessories and all that rot." Spike fluttered his eyelashes at Angel, smirking.

"At least I own more than one pair of clothing," the brunette shot back. "Your clothing never changes. You're like a comic book character or something."

Spike narrowed his eyes. "Hmph. 'Least my 'one outfit' doesn't make me look like a bleedin' fairy."

Angel rolled his eyes. "Please, you think anything that isn't denim, ripped, and held together with safety pins is gay."

"On you, it generally is."

The detective was unable to come up with a suitable reply, so he kicked Spike in the shin.

"OW! You wanker!" Spike kicked back, and Angel would have continued their fight if a nearby woman with a baby hadn't shot him a venomous glare.

Sighing, Angel held up his hands to signal peace. "Okay. No more."

"You just know I'd win."

_Deep breaths, Angel. Deep breaths_. "Question. Why did I have to come to Lansing, when this Redgrass place is on almost the other side of the state."

"We reckoned Lansing would be far enough away that nobody in Hamilton's pet town would get word that anyone from Wolfram and Hart had landed here," Spike responded. "Got a bloody spy network that would make the Soviet Union proud. Gonna have to take out a few of his agents if we want to get anything done." He was very calm as he said this. Angel might have been out of the game, but Spike had stayed behind, and it showed in his cool, professional demeanor

And that's when it hit Angel, hard. This was real. Oh, yes, he'd been on the verge of tears in L.A., but that was mostly at the prospect of leaving the little home he'd carved out. When Angelus had told him the situation, Angel had understood that it was serious. But now, standing here with his partner in an unfamiliar place, talking about killing people, the detective understood how deep he was in. It felt like a vise was starting to tighten in his chest as the brunette felt the beginnings of a panic attack. He used to have them all the time when he was a kid, and now, well…

Angel had been obsessive before he was old enough to pronounce the word. He always took stairs two at a time, he touched every banister on the staircase when he went up to his room in the Hyperion, and he always followed exactly the same routine when he woke up: brush teeth, shower, wash face, brush and gel hair. And although it always caused him to twitch and fidget and be unable to think of anything else when he failed to do these things, Angel considered them mostly harmless. It was the hand washing that he considered to be truly threatening.

No one would think he was too bizarre if he insisted on doing the exact same thing each and every morning. They would simply mutter that he was a control freak and move on. But someone who spent half an hour washing his hands, unable to stop? Obsessive-compulsive. Freak. Dangerous. At least, that's how Angel figured it. For the most part, he'd managed to just take a shower if he felt dirty and work out when he felt the need to self-flagellate. But even though it had been about three years since Angel had felt an attack-because that's what he thought of them as, attacks from the depths of his own mind-he could still recognize when one was coming.

"I…" he swallowed convulsively, clenching and unclenching his fists. It felt like he had bugs crawling all over his skin. Itchy, dirty bugs and if he didn't wash them off NOW, he was going to scream.

"You okay, poof?" Spike asked, actually looking concerned. "You look like you're about to heave." The bleach blonde took a step forward and Angel took a step back, nearly running into the luggage carousel. He felt like screaming not to touch him, nobody touch him, there was something _wrong_ with him, and wasn't OCD, a massive guilt complex, and a healthy dose of self-hatred a glorious combination?

_I can't breathe_, Angel thought in a disturbingly rational part of his mind. _I'm having a panic attack_. He really couldn't breathe, though, and knew he was shaking. "I have to go to the bathroom," he muttered aloud, sidestepping Spike neatly and trying not to break out in a full-tilt run as he fled to the men's room.

The bathroom was blessedly empty, because it was twelve something in the morning and most people were trying to sleep. As the liquid soap filled his hands and the hot water scalded him, Angel reflected that things could be worse. He could be a full-blown alcoholic, instead of just an occasional one. He could be some junkie, living on the streets. He could be making a living on his back like Darla-

No, better not to go down that path. The past was the past and whatever pain he'd felt shouldn't hurt him now. It shouldn't have mattered that he still had nightmares about seeing his ex-wife standing there in Sunnydale, baby cradled in an arm covered with needle tracks, screaming 'How the hell do you think I make money, damn you, damn you!'

"No!" Angel hissed out loud, scrubbing hard. It shouldn't have mattered, but it did. Scrub scrub scrub. Scrub scrub scrub. _'It's easier if you don't fight it, Angel. Listen to me. It's easier if you don't fight. Just give in.' _Oh so familiar voice, the one that had whispered poisons in his ear for his entire life.

"No," the brunette man whispered. He was so tired. He wanted to lie down and sleep forever. But he couldn't do that, because he had responsibilities and people who needed him. What he could do, though, was wash his hands. Scrub scrub scrub. Scrub scrub scrub. How many sinks in how many places had Angel tried to wash away his life in? Scrub scrub scrub.

Spike POV 

_Bloody effing hell, how many bags does the man need?_ The blonde Englishman wondered as he pulled yet another of Angel's bags off the luggage carousel. Spike was getting bored, sitting out in the lobby of what he considered to be a very annoying airport. All airports were annoying, but this one seemed to be going out of its way to bother him.

For a while, the Englishman had amused himself by rifling through the lame little backpack Angel had been carrying with him. Not much in there really. Pictures of two dark-haired people that Spike didn't recognize. Bird didn't look too bad though. Maybe she was Angel's newest tumble? A Barry Manilow CD, signed no less.

"You complete ponce," Spike muttered, shaking his head in legitimate pain. If he hadn't been aware that he and Angel were going to be sharing close quarters, thus making the blonde man vulnerable to Angel's vengeful wrath, Spike would have flung the CD to the farthest corners of the airport. "Barry soddin' Manilow."

Hmm, what else was in there? A little box with two rings in them. One of them looked pricey, like a wedding ring or something. But it was just tossed into the little cardboard box, not as if the Great Poof was going to propose to anyone. The other ring was just some little silver thing, with the words 'Sunnydale High' pressed into one side. The stone was a pretty shade of blue. Spike wondered where it had come from.

There was a big book with an honest-to-God lock holding it closed. The key to it was nowhere to be seen, and Angel would notice if the book had been ripped open. Spike made a mental note to remember the book though. If it turned out to be some woe-is-me diary, then it would give the blonde enough material to blackmail Angel into the next century.

Huh. A picture. Of Angel and Angelus, because there was no mistaking them, even as children. Spike felt an odd little pang as he looked the picture over. Both of the boys looked happy and innocent, having no idea what sort of darkness was going to consume their lives later on down the line. Spike had always been able to tell the twins apart and that still applied to their pre-pubescent selves as well. Angel was wearing his goofy, I'm-a-dork-but-I-don't-really-mind grin. Angelus had his arm wrapped around his brother's shoulders. Spike studied the young, pre-CEO carefully. There was still that little, bullying glint in his eyes, but it wasn't the 'I work for the Devil' glint that he possessed now.

The blonde man had often found himself wondering how people ended up the way that they were. Did one event change them completely, or was it a series of moments that subtly changed the person until they were far too different to ever return to what they had been. For Spike, it was easy to know what changed him. The turning point had been a single day in his life, when so many things had gone terribly wrong. His mother had been diagnosed with brain cancer. Terminal. Oh, sure, it would take a long time for it to kill her, but William had been able to see it in the doctor's eyes, even as he spoke of treatments. His mother was going to die, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

He had lost both parents that day. His father, never the most dependable or stable man to begin with, had taken a long look at his wife's prognosis, hugged his son hard and told him to be a good boy, and then walked out the door. Spike had never seen him again and suspected that was a good thing, because William Harrington Sr. definitely had a broken nose coming to him.

That had been the day where things had changed. The day that William had cast off his old identity and become Spike, swearing that he would never be hurt and sad and helpless again. He'd do whatever it took to keep his mum in the best hospitals, making sure she was comfortable and as happy as she could be while wasting away, medicated up to her eyeballs.

Years later, Spike still refused to look back on the deals he'd made with anything but a bittersweet pride. He would not ever regret giving his mother a few more years of life, even if he'd had to sell his soul to do it.

Feeling uncomfortable with so much reflection, Spike looked around for Angel. Christ, he'd had to have been in the bathroom for a good fifteen minutes now. What on Earth could he be doing? The blonde man scowled as all the possibilities of just what Angel _could_ be doing ran through his mind.

"Right," Spike murmured, sighing through his nose and glancing at the bags. He didn't really care if any of them got stolen; it's not like they were his. But he grabbed Angel's little black backpack anyway, because it probably had some sentimental value to the poof and he didn't need hours and hours of whining on the drive to Redgrass.

Spike was not sure how long partners usually stayed together in the assassin business. But he and Angel had managed to hang around each other from January of 1997 to November of '98 and not cause serious physical or emotional harm to one another, which the blonde man considered a victory. Sure, at first Spike had been as annoying as humanly possible because he felt as if he was getting a vicarious revenge on Angelus, but soon it had just become about ruffling Captain Hair Gel's feathers. Spike liked to think that he helped keep Angel from brooding so much, because it was difficult to alphabetize your past sins and scream at someone in the same space of time. And, well, Angel was decent enough to him, irritation aside. They'd saved each other's lives heaps of times and trusted each other at their respective backs. So, while he and the Prince of Ponce would probably never be Best Friends Forever, there was a relationship there.

That's what kept Spike from commenting as he opened the door to the men's room and found Angel hunched over a sink, scrubbing furiously at his hands. _Poor bastard,_ the Englishman thought, wishing hard for a cigarette. He'd had to talk Angel through a few of these episodes, and it was never pretty.

Angel wasn't looking so good. He looked wrung out, like someone had taken and squeezed all the energy out of him. Those bloody huge shoulders were slumped, and his skin was paler than normal for an L.A. resident. _He's had a hard time of it._

"Hey, mate," Spike muttered.

Angel's head shot up, the look in his eyes resembling nothing more than a deer in the headlights. "Hey," he responded. At no point in time did the hand-scrubbing stop.

"Do you want to talk?" the Englishman asked delicately. _Please, God, no. I do _not_ want to be his soddin' therapist._

"No," Angel responded with a humorless laugh, "I want to wash my hands."

"Yeah, I can see that, but we have a long drive ahead of us. Might want to get on with it."

"Would if I could," Angel responded tersely, once again staring down at his never-stopping hands. Spike wondered if he'd scrubbed off the skin yet.

There was only one tried and true solution for Angel when he got like this, and Spike enjoyed it. He approached the poof quietly, trying his best to look solemn. Not that Angel took any notice of this, preferring to look at his hands. _Three,_ the blonde man moved until he was standing right next to Angel, their shoulders almost touching. _Two,_ Spike removed his hands from his pockets and made as if to put them on the counter. _One!_

Leaping upon Angel with a whoop of glee, Spike grabbed a handful of thick, brown, gel-encrusted hair and rubbed. Within seconds, the previously perfect and unmovable 'do was sticking up at odd angles and generally making Angel look like he'd been electrocuted. The poof, meanwhile, gave a decidedly un-manly shriek and whirled around, trying to dislodge Spike.

Sure he usually got covered with water and soap when he did this, but the blonde reckoned it was worth it. His sneaky little move got Angel's hands out of the water, which was usually enough to snap the crazy sod out of it, with the added bonus of messing up the Poncey One's hair.

Deciding to have mercy, Spike let go. Angel was panting like a bull about to charge, his hair looking like he'd styled it while having a seizure, covered in water from where his flailing had splashed him. The Englishman began laughing, and actually laughed so hard that passing out became a distinct possibility.

"This. Is. Not. Funny, you little shit," Angel growled out, soapy hands clenched into fists.

Spike, unable to respond through laughter, simply nodded spasmodically. The big man stood there, cursing and fuming, but the Englishman knew that he wasn't in any danger. Still growling, Angel stalked over to the paper towel machine and ripped a few sheets loose, drying his hands and trying to restyle his hair into something resembling normal.

"Spike," Angel said suddenly, going still, "you have my backpack."

"Yeah," Spike answered, nudging said backpack with his foot.

"Did you look through it?" the brunette asked, turning to glare suspiciously at Spike.

"No," the Englishman answered, straight-faced.

"Uh-huh," Angel grunted, disbelievingly. Then his brow scrunched together as a thought occurred to him. "Wait, if you're in here, who's watching my bags?"

Spike shrugged, trying not to grin. "Idiot!" Angel hissed at him, darting through the doors at breakneck speed. Shifting the backpack onto his shoulders, Spike laughed at the sight Angel made as he ran to the suitcases. Oh yeah, this was gonna be fun.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Part**: 6 **Disclaimer**: Even AU they don't belong to me 

**Feedback**: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

**Summary**: AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.

**Author's Note**: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. _Italics_ indicate thought **A/N 2:** Hmm, chapters six and seven seem incredibly long, mostly because they are, lol. It'll be best if you, the reader, read them one after the other, because you will probably be slightly confused by the end of this one. 

_June 14_

_12: 58 AM_

_Capital City Airport, Lansing, Michigan_ **Spike POV**

The water that Angel had splashed on Spike was uncomfortably cool as the two of them walked out into the Michigan night. That, plus the irritatingly heavy bags that Spike was helping to carry, had made the blonde want to annoy Angel. Well, scratch that, he always wanted to annoy Angel, but now he was doing it with a vengeance.

"This is the song that never ends! It just goes on and on, my friends!" Spike sang cheerfully as he and Angel made their way towards the edge of the parking lot, where their ride was parked.

"Shut up," Angel growled. "Just. Shut. Up."

"Some people started singin' it, not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because," Spike took a dramatic pause, before continuing even more loudly, "THIS IS THE SONG THAT NEVER ENDS! IT JUST GOES ON AND ON MY-mmph!" The Englishman grunted in pain as Angel swung a suitcase at him, hitting Spike square in the side. This started a brief shoving contest, made all the more challenging by the fact that the two men were trying to hold several suitcases as they pushed each other. Had they not reached the car, blood might have been spilled. Spike was sure he would have won though.

"_This_ is the car?" Angel asked, grimacing distastefully.

Spike was secretly very pleased that his partner disliked the red SUV that was theirs to use throughout the course of the job. As vastly different as the two men were, they had discovered one, single, unifying point. They were both in love with classic cars. Angel had nearly squealed when he'd first laid eyes on Spike's Desoto, and the blonde had done likewise when he'd seen that lovely Plymouth GTX that Angel kept stored somewhere. Of course, the red Ferrari had been tingly-naughty-feeling-inducing, but that Plymouth had some class. It had some character. It also had the best security that Angel could buy, and because of that, Spike hadn't had much success in hotwiring it. Shame, really.

"It runs well enough," Spike ventured, unlocking the car. It gave a mechanical chirp, which made the blonde grimace. Manly cars did not 'chirp'. "And your brother insisted that we try and be as inconspicuous as possible. Hence the White Bread Mobile. There's one waitin' for you in Redgrass, too."

"Cars like this have no personality. They all come out of the factory exactly the same. They're the cafeteria food of cars." Angel continued ranting as he loaded his stuff into the trunk. Spike was amused to see that the big man was still clinging to his backpack like he was five and it was a security blanket. Finally, the brunette slammed the trunk closed, looking legitimately irritated.

Spike shook his head, walked around the car, and opened the driver's side door. "Plus this damn thing makes the petrol evaporate like water in the desert. A lot of my cigarette and beer money is going towards keeping the beast running." He sank back slightly in the leather seats. Ah, leather. At least the car had a few good qualities. That Global Positioning thing was nifty, too.

"So it's boring, and it harms the environment," summarized Angel, as entered through the passenger door. "We should request a new one."

"Stop being snobby. Not all the cars you drive have to be top-o'-the-line beauties."

The detective muttered something about not being snobby, but went quiet as the car's engine rumbled to life and Spike began the very long drive to Redgrass. The Englishman, sensing that Angel was going to brood for a while, turned on the radio and flipped through the stations, trying to find something worth listening to. He gave the songs bonus points if they made Angel grimace. He'd started singing along during the last song by The Clash, and continued singing as a new song came on. He knew this one by heart too. There wasn't much else to do on surveillance but watch things and listen to music. The song was a few lines in before Angel finally reacted.

"Someone get me to the doctor, someone get me to a church, where they can pump this venom-gaping hole," Spike sang, watching Angel's disgusted expression with glee.

"Why do you have to sing Spike?" the brunette asked in frustration. "Can't you just be silent?"

"And you must keep your soul like a secret in your throat. And if they come an get me, what if, you put the spike in my heart!" Head banging while driving was admittedly dangerous, but Spike was a professional at it.

"Ah, so that's why you like this song," shouted Angel over the chorus. "Your name shows up in it."

Spike stuck his tongue out at Angel, aware that it was a bit juvenile but not particularly caring. The next verse came in and he cranked the volume dial even higher. "And now the night comes. That's a stage for this, they come in pairs. She said, 'We'll shoot back holy water like cheap whiskey'. They're always there!"

_And now to really rattle his knobs_, Spike thought maliciously. Ah, he'd missed having Angel around to mess with. After checking to make sure there wasn't much traffic around, Spike put his plan into action. He took his hands off the wheel and put them behind his head in a relaxed position. His brunette partner was gawping at him in horror, and Spike smirked. Then he propped his feet on the wheel to steer. After all, driving with no appendages touching the wheel at all was dangerous.

With Angel shrieking in his ear, Spike howled the next verse. "Someone get me to the doctor, and someone call a nurse, and someone buy me roses-"

"SPIKE, GET YOUR GODDAMN HANDS BACK ON THE GODDAMN WHEEL!"

"-and someone burn the church. We're hanging out with corpses and driving in this hearse. Someone save my soul tonight, please save my soul tonight!" His final yell was interrupted when Angel very rudely shoved his feet from the wheel, causing the car to veer dangerously off the road.

"Oi!" the Englishman protested, but Angel was paying little mind to Spike's indignity. Instead, the brunette was frantically steering the car to a shoulder of the road before nearly tearing the keys out of the ignition. The car grumbled to a halt and Spike took survey of the situation. Angel was sprawled across both their seats, practically in Spike's lap, one hand on the wheel, the other dangling in the space beneath the seats, clutching the keys. Spike, on the other hand, had his hands behind his head and his legs pushed against the door in a rather uncomfortable way.

"Why Angel," the blonde said softly, grinning down at the furious man in his lap, "I had no idea you felt that way about me."

Angel actually bared his teeth and growled as he struggled back to a sitting position, making sure to elbow Spike in the groin as he was doing so. _That was unnecessary, _the Englishman thought in irritation, doubling over in pain.

"I just," Angel gasped, out of breath and furious, "_hate_ you. Just completely HATE YOU!"

Spike laughed. "Aw, c'mon. You had fun."

"No, you bleached kamikaze idiot, dying in a car accident is NOT my idea of fun!"

Rolling his eyes, Spike straightened and held his hand out for the keys. The expression on Angel's face was really quite priceless.

"There is no way in hell you are getting these keys! You almost killed us!"

"There was no traffic around, Angel." Spike was used to the detective's stubborn silliness by now. "We were perfectly safe."

"We could have hit a tree, and that still would have killed us!"

"The closest we ever got to the trees was when you pulled us off the road," Spike pointed out calmly.

"I'm driving now, you psycho. You can give me the directions, but you aren't getting anywhere near the wheel." Keys clutched firmly in hand, it was clear that Angel was not going to budge an inch.

Faking a sigh Spike moved as if he was going to get out of the car, but suddenly whirled and jabbed his fingers into Angel's kidney. Swearing with pain, Angel instinctively let go of the keys in favor of clutching his side. The blond triumphantly grabbed the keys and jammed them into the ignition. Ah, victory.

Glancing over to the passenger side, Spike saw that his partner was still clutching his side, panting something like, "Kill you, kill you, kill you!" Silly ponce.

"I promise not to steer the car with me feet anymore," Spike murmured when Angel finally straightened and looked ready to attack. Baring his teeth once again-_did he go feral or something?_-the detective jabbed the radio off before settling back into his seat.

The Englishman began driving again, cheerfully ignoring the death glares that Angel was sending him. The loss of music didn't faze him. He'd won this round.

"What was that stupid song anyway?" Angel asked after about fifteen minutes of silence.

_Oh yeah,_ I'm _the one who can't stand to be silent_? But Spike answered nonetheless. "It was _Vampires Will Never Hurt You_. 'S by My Chemical Romance."

"Your chemical what?" Angel asked, familiar expression of confusion on his face.

Rolling his eyes in pity, the Englishman explained, "No you git, My Chemical Romance is the name of the band."

"Ah." Another minute or so of silence. "Stupid to sing about vampires."

Sensing the beginnings of what could be another world-class argument, Spike responded, "Why is it stupid?"

Angel stared at him in surprise. "Because vampires aren't real." The way he said it indicated that it should be obvious.

"So? That doesn't mean anything. People sing about all sorts of things that aren't real. Ever heard _Vampire Punk Rockers From Hell_ by Inkubus Sukkubus?" Angel shook his head. "'Course not. Well, my point is, people talk and sing and make TV shows about things that don't exist. Vampires and werewolves and the like. So what?"

"But it means you can't connect to what they're understand about, especially if they are singing," protested the brunette. "Music is supposed to make you feel something, and you can't feel anything if you can't relate."

"But you _can_ relate," Spike argued. "Remember that ex-wife of yours? She seemed like a real bloodsucker."

Angel scowled hard at him. "Leave Darla out of this, yeah?"

"'M just sayin'."

"Well don't." Angel's voice was unexpectedly harsh, and Spike glanced at him curiously. He'd have thought Peaches would have had nothing but bitter loathing for his ex. _If I had married a woman, promised to love and cherish and whatever, and then she'd slept with my rich twin brother, I'd be right pissed_.

The silence in the car was suddenly uncomfortable. Spike tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, occasionally stealing glances at Angel. Finally, reckoning the question couldn't possibly upset the detective too badly, Spike asked, "You ever see her again? After you quit Wolfram and Hart?"

"Yes." The tone of Angel's voice indicated that that was all the blonde was going to get.

So imagine Spike's great surprise when, about five minutes later, Angel asked, "How long did she stay in L.A. after I left?"

Squinting, Spike tried to remember. "Uh, she buggered off about two months after you did."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She and Angelus had some kind of bloody great row, and next thing I knew, she was gone. With the baby." He wasn't sure what made him ask the next question. "When you…saw her again, did she have the little one with her, then?"

"Yeah," Angel muttered quietly. "She had Connor."

Spike almost wanted to try and crash the car again. At least then, he wouldn't have to dive so deep into the past. He wasn't a big fan of reflection, of looking back and closely examining what he'd done. Live for now, that was his motto. One of them, anyway. But Angel was trapped by the past, and Spike could see that so clearly it was as if the chains were real, tangible things. And as much as the big guy got under his skin, Spike didn't want to see him miserable.

So he took it upon himself to exorcise some of those demons from Angel's past. It might not have been his business, but that had never stopped Spike before. "Look, mate, I know you don't exactly revel in the things that happened, but maybe it was for the best."

"Oh really?" Angel's voice had gone very cold. "How do you figure?"

"Would you have really wanted to be with Darla when she was cheating on you? Knowing what she'd done, could you have gone on with things? Especially when she was pregnant?"

Angel swallowed, looking down at his hands folded in his lap. "No, I didn't want to be with Darla after everything that had happened."

"Exactly." Spike felt slightly encouraged. "So maybe it was good that it all came out. You wouldn't have wanted to go through your life thinkin' that baby was yours."

"No. I wouldn't want to have raised Angelus' son," Angel agreed. The Englishman tried to ignore the fact that his partner was pretty much repeating what he said, but simply using different words.

"Right. And having the kid around, that would have been a pretty hard reminder of what happened. Which is why you left Wolfram and Hart, right?"

The brunette nodded, eyes closed.

"So you got to leave the place you hated and wander the world or whatever it was that you did for five years. Y'know, before you became a detective."

"How did you find out about that, anyway?" Angel asked quietly.

"Your brother told me."

More silence, long enough that Spike thought his partner had fallen asleep. Therefore, he was quite startled when Angel spoke. "Do you think I'd have been a good parent?"

Spike closed his eyes for a moment, sighing through his nose. _I said I didn't want to be his therapist. So why is this happening!_ But still he answered, "Better than Darla and Angelus. I mean, you have a whole hell of a lot of problems," which made Angel smile, "but still. You'd have at least been better than your brother. Since the day I met him, I'd always reckoned that if Angelus did have any young, he'd probably eat them."

That actually made Angel laugh. "I always thought that Darla and I would have a family though, y'know?" He still had his eyes closed, and the smile had dropped from his face. He looked so pale as to almost be translucent in the darkness.

"I don't think the bint was ready to have a kid when she did. She still had a lot of issues. Plus, it would also have helped if she could decide which of the O'Brien twins she wanted a piece of."

Angel smiled again. "You're like Doctor Phil and Jerry Spring all rolled in to one, you know that?"

"Sure, whatever." Spike drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment. "Are we bonding or something?"

"God, I hope not."

"Right."

"This conversation never leaves the car."

The blonde looked at Angel aghast. "Well, bloody hell no. People might start thinking I'm nice." He shuddered.

"Couldn't have that."

When Spike looked at Angel again, a half hour later, the brunette was asleep. As much as doing something to Angel in his sleep was tempting, Spike decided to leave the old boy alone. Plenty of time for pranks when they got to Redgrass.

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

Part: 7 **Disclaimer**: Even AU they don't belong to me 

**Feedback**: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

**Summary**: AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.

Author's Note: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. _Italics_ indicate thought _June 14, 2005_

_3:12 AM_

_Speedway Gas Station, Somewhere in Michigan_

Angel's POV 

-_His arm hurts. The tears are flowing freely from his eyes and he feels like he's about to throw up. Liam's little eight-year-old body isn't equipped to deal with this pain. The arm itself is bent at an angle that the boy has never seen before. He's pretty sure it shouldn't look like that. Angelus has a firm grip on the uninjured arm and is steering him towards the house. It's cold outside, the middle of February, and the snow from the Connecticut winter covers the ground in sharp, cold heaps. There's ice on the sidewalks. He should've been careful. Angelus had told him that and laughed as Liam lay on the ground, cradling his broken arm._

_"God above, Liam!" His mother runs out to him, seeing his pain. She hesitates before she scoops him up in an embrace. It would be hard to do that without moving the arm. Karen O'Brien hugs him gently and looks critically down at the limb. She is warm against the cold winter air and Liam wipes his face against her shirt._

_"God," Mrs. O'Brien repeats, staring at the sick angle of her son's arm. Her face is very pale. Liam has never seen his mom look so scared before. "I think it's broken."_

_Liam is hustled inside to his father's study. "Liam!" his father exclaims, swiveling in his chair to look at his son in horror. Angelus lurks at Liam's shoulder, looking down at the ground. When Liam glances at his brother, he notices the small, almost invisible smile that rests upon his the older twin's lips. _

_"I think his arm is broken," Kathleen explains to her husband, not letting go of Liam. "I'm gonna go start the car. Liam, baby, it's going to be okay, just stay calm, honey." _Mom sounds scared_. That in itself terrified Liam. Mom and Dad didn't get scared. They just didn't._

_"Liam, how did this happen?" His father asks, kneeling on the ground in front of Liam and gently taking hold of his uninjured shoulder. _Daddy, _Liam whimpered in his mind. His father smells of cologne and paper, and Liam wants to be lost in that smell. His father would protect him._

_"I-" Angelus moves subtly closer to his brother and Liam feels a sharp, painful pinch on his side. Angelus had positioned himself so his body would be blocking the movement._

_"It'll be okay, Lee," the older twin says, voice filled with nothing but worry and innocence. The fingers in his side pinch harder, making fresh tears flow from Liam's eyes._

_Their father looks at them, his expression unreadable to an eight-year-old. "What happened, Liam?" Now Mr. O'Brien sounds suspicious, like when he thought the boys had done something and couldn't prove it._

_"He slipped on the ice," Angelus answers. The smile is gone, replaced with an expression of concern. There are actual tears in his eyes. "We were playing and then he fell down that really big hill. I couldn't catch him."_

_"Did you fall on the ice, Liam?" His father's eyes demanded the truth._

What do I say? _Angelus was pinching so hard that there was definitely going to be a bruise. Maybe…maybe things would be better if he just said yes. He hated it when people yelled, and if he said what had really happened, there would be a lot of yelling. And Angelus would get back at him, eventually. Besides, maybe he'd been confused. Maybe it hadn't been hands he'd felt on his back when he fell down the steep hill. Maybe it was the wind. Angelus probably hadn't been laughing as Liam heard a horrible, cracking noise emit from his arm. Liam had just tripped on the ice. It was winter. There was ice._

"_Yes. I f-fell on the ice." The pinching fingers release him and Angelus rubs his back soothingly._

_"Okay, let's get him to the hospital," comes his mother's voice. Liam gets to sit on his Mom's lap on the way to the emergency room, while Angelus sits alone in the back seat. When the injured boy glances back at his brother, Angelus smiles at him. Liam is very glad he'd said he tripped.-_

Angel jerked awake as the memory released him. _Where am I_? It took him a moment to remember that he was sprawled in the backseat of the red Ford Explorer. He and Spike were in Michigan. Where in Michigan, Angel couldn't say. The detective vaguely remembered his partner waking him up earlier that night and telling him that if he was going to snore like a bear with a head cold, he should do it in the backseat. Angel couldn't remember actually moving from the passenger seat in the back, nor did he remember taking off his shoes and covering himself with a blanket, but he was quite sure that it had happened.

Rubbing his eyes with his right arm, the one that had been broken 26 years ago, Angel tried to shake off the memory. It didn't matter if Angelus had pushed him down the twenty-foot hill outside of their house when they were eight. It had been a long time ago. It didn't matter.

He struggled to a sitting position, shifting the blanket off of himself a little. The car was parked in a gas station. Spike was not in the driver's seat, but Angel could see the bright peroxide head in the gas station itself. Arguing with the cashier, by the looks of things.

Shaking his head, the detective tried to figure out where he was. Apart from the gas station, there was nothing but woods all around. Angel rather liked the woods. He'd grown up in Connecticut, which still had some nature in it, and had felt stifled by the city, at first. Now he was used to living in the concrete jungle, but it was still exceptionally nice to see so much green.

His watch said that it was 3:12 AM. The sky was a light grey color, soft pink where the sun was starting to rise. Angel lay back on the seat. He'd used his jacket as pillow, and it was warm where he'd been sleeping on it.

_I can't believe I talked to Spike about Darla_, he mused, staring at the ceiling of the car. It was strange to talk to someone who didn't know nearly every painful detail of his life, the way Cordy and Doyle did.

Liam O'Brien's life had never been a shining beacon of happiness, but he'd managed to maintain a sort of balance. That had all come apart in 1998. January 7, Darla had told him that she was pregnant. It had been the happiest day of his life. He was going to be a father. Angel hadn't even cared whether it was a girl or a boy. A baby. Sure, he'd been a little scared, but his joy had been enough to cancel that out completely. Darla had smelled like flowers when he hugged her and danced her around the room.

Five months later, it was clear to Angel that something was wrong. Darla wasn't happy anymore. No, she was closed off and sad, crying for no reason and clinging to him like any minute he was going to melt away. For no reason at all, she'd call and say that she loved him. It had scared Angel badly. He'd been worried she was dying or something. Then she'd dropped her bombshell.

Darla had been having an affair with Angelus. The baby wasn't Angel's. It was his brother's. That had been the only time that Angel had ever hit Darla, and the memory of it shamed him deeply.

But at the time, Angel had been running on nothing but rage and betrayal and the fury that simmered under his skin.

_-"YOU SON OF A BITCH, I'LL KILL YOU!" Angel screamed as he threw open the door to Angelus' office. His brother looked up, startled. Spike, who was sitting across from him, looked equally alarmed. In the cold, clinical, assassin part of his mind, Angel realized that he'd interrupted a meeting of some kind. But no part of him could be brought to care._

_"Angel, what-" was all Angelus could get out before his brother pounced on him, screaming and kicking. Angel wasn't even trying to fight properly. He wasn't going for the weak points or trying to incapacitate his brother. He was just out to hurt. Angel wanted to hit until his knuckles bled and kick until his toes broke. If he had to hurt, than so did Angelus._

_Unfortunately, Angelus managed to back up enough to kick Angel in the gut, causing him to double over in pain. "What the fuck is wrong with you!" Angelus demanded, panting. _

_But Angel wasn't in the mood to talk. He wanted to hurt. The younger twin dove at his brother, hands outstretched, trying to jab at Angelus' eyes. The bastard moved too quickly though, and they ended up circling each other. Angel was steadily ignoring his brother's attempts to calm him down. _Gonna kill you. Tear your head off with my bare hands. You took them away from me. Gonna kill you.

_"Should I…should I call someone?" Spike asked. The Englishman was out of his chair, watching the two brothers warily._

_"Stay out of this, Spike," Angel hissed, never taking his eyes off of his brother._

_"Angel, what is wrong with you?" Angelus asked, holding up his hands to try and make peace._

_"You!" Angel laughed bitterly. "You are everything that's wrong with me!" And he attacked again. _

_By the time Angelus threw him onto the desk, they were both bruised and bleeding. Angel's knee felt like it had an ice pick wedged in it. But Angelus had a black eye, a bloody nose, and he had curled his right arm close to his body, unable to fight with it any longer. Plus, the suit was absolutely ruined._

_Angelus tried to pin Angel to the desk, but the younger twin had been an assassin for several years now, while Angelus had been sitting in his office making phone calls. Going to the gym three times a week could not compare to fighting life-or-death. Angel knew that for once in his life, he had the advantage. _

_Angel whirled and kicked his brother hard in the gut. Swearing, the CEO went down on his knees, clutching his stomach in pain. Angel did a low spinning kick that connected with his brother's shoulder and sent Angelus flying across the office._

_His brother was down, helpless before him, and for the first time ever, Angel saw fear in Angelus' eyes. Fear of him. "I'm going to kill you," the assassin hissed, hate and power making his blood boil. Was this what Angelus felt all those times he'd beaten Angel up as a kid? No wonder he had done it so often._

_But Angelus, as always, would not sit still and get killed. No, as soon as his brother was close enough, the CEO snapped out a kick that connected with Angel's already- injured knee. The younger twin went down hard._

"_Spike!" the CEO yelled, and Angel felt a hard boot slam into his back. Agony shot up his spine, temporarily paralyzing him. In that space of time, Angelus ended up on top of him, pinning him to the ground._

_"Angel," Angelus panted, ignoring his brother's struggles. "What's wrong with you?"_

_"YOU TOOK THEM AWAY FROM ME!" Angel screamed, animal rage filling him. He realized suddenly that he tears running down his face._

_"Took…who?" asked Angelus, confused. His grip on Angel's arms never loosened though._

_"You took them away!" Angel repeated again, struggling and screaming. "You couldn't just let me have something, could you, you bastard! You had to take her, and then you took him!" The assassin started thrashing again, like an animal in a trap, trying to dislodge his brother. Trying to kill his brother. _

_Angelus dragged Angel upwards slightly before slamming him into the ground. This managed to force some measure of rationality back into Angel's mind. Both brothers were panting, but unlike Angel, Angelus wasn't crying. He was simply wearing an angry, confused expression. A drop of blood slid from his face to hit Angel's cheek. Blood. The DNA in that blood was identical to Angel's. No one would have ever known that Connor wasn't Angel's. But Darla knew. A mother had to know._

_"Liam," grip around his wrists tightening and loosening convulsively, "what's going on?"_

_"Connor isn't my son!" Angel screamed, and the words burned his throat. "He's yours! He isn't mine!" Sobbing, Angel closed his eyes and repeated quietly, "He isn't mine._

_Angelus let go of his brother and sat up, expression shocked. Spike, who was standing by quietly after kicking Angel, summarized it as well as any of them could. "Bloody hell."-_

Phantom injuries still ached when Angel thought of that day. _Should have brought a gun and just killed the bastard_, he thought coldly. But it had not been a day for smart thinking on anyone's part. Later, after giving Darla an ice pack to help with the black eye she'd been sporting, Angel had quietly asked for a divorce.

Connor was born on the eighth of October. Angel and Angelus had been the only non-medical people there. His birth had nearly killed Darla, and they'd eventually had to do a Caesarian section. But afterwards, watching her hold Connor, it occurred to Angel that his ex-wife had never looked so beautiful.

November had seen Angel leaving Wolfram and Hart for good. He had told Darla goodbye and held Connor for the first time. 'I love you' he'd whispered to his nephew, fighting back tears. Angelus had watched all of this quietly. Darla had moved in with the CEO after the divorce.

_-"I'll bring you back, Angel. There's nowhere you go that I can't find you." Angelus had his arms crossed, and Angel wondered how this cold, evil man was going to raise the baby boy that he held in his arms. "Don't make me send someone to go get you."_

_Angel gave Connor back to Darla and glared at his brother. "Send whoever you want, you bastard. I'll leave them in a puddle of their own blood."-_

Lindsey had fallen to his knees when Angel had shot him. Blood fell like rain from his hand. Angelus had reckoned that there was no way Angel would hurt his best friend. But Angelus hadn't known that Angel and Lindsey had not parted friends.

_-"Oh, scary words," Angelus sneered._

_"Puddle of their own blood," Angel repeated. "Just keep that in mind."_

"_I will take away everything you have, little brother," Angelus called after his brother as Angel made his way towards the elevator. He wondered, briefly, whether or not Connor would be safe in the penthouse apartment, but he shrugged it off. It was no longer his problem. "Don't think I can't."_

_Angel laughed harshly. "Go ahead, _boss_." Identical sneer. "I got nothing left to lose." _

Angel had indeed wandered the world. From L.A. to Taiwan, where he had stayed long enough to allow Buddhism to creep into his mind, where it settled right next to the Catholicism he'd been born and raised with.He didn't exactly have a religion anymore. More like a mix. He'd gone from Taiwan to Sri Lanka, then a long boat trip to South Africa. Up along the African coast to Europe. Europe had been an interesting continent, one that had sunk into his skin and his bones, and he could still call up the feel of it today, if he wanted to. He'd made money by doing odd jobs, mostly. House and yard work, painting, building. And drawing. Angel had, to his amusement, become the guy that sat outside tourist attractions and offered to draw people for ten dollars.

But it had been worth it, because Europe had healed some part of him. Angel wasn't sure what part had done it, exactly. He'd been to so many places that he couldn't pinpoint which city in particular had helped him cope the most. It could have been Rome, or perhaps Paris. Venice, or Brussels, or one of the dozens of cities he'd visited in Spain. (Romania was definitely not the one, though. Angel had pretty much been chased out of there with torches and pitchforks. Damn gypsies.) But all Angel knew was that by the time he reached the United Kingdom, he no longer felt like killing himself.

He had stayed in the U.K. for what felt like lifetimes. Angel knew that if he ever needed to run away again, he'd run to England. Or maybe Ireland; he never quite decided which he liked better.

Eventually, Angel had come back to the United States, feeling very different then he had when he'd left it. And, somehow, he had ended up in California, despite vehement declarations that he would never come back to that godforsaken state. But it was in California that Angel had found Sunnydale. Three hours away from Los Angeles. Never let it be said that Angel couldn't take risks.

Angel had loved Buffy the moment he saw her. Which was somewhat strange, being as how the first time he'd seen her, she was kicking a mugger in the groin. But that had not deterred Angel at all. He had gone up to her, kicked the already downed mugger once for good measure, and asked if she wanted to go for coffee. All his self-loathing had been put on hold. Around Buffy, Angel felt like good. Like he was a person worth saving. Two months later, they were officially dating.

Buffy had been a sophomore in college in 2002, which made her much younger than Angel. Buffy's annoying little friend Xander pointed that out often. It hadn't seemed to matter though. Angel and Buffy were soon nearly inseparable. Looking back on things, Angel was amazed at how easily he'd sunk into life in Sunnydale. He had gotten a job working as a bartender at The Bronze, a local club. He had made friends with most of the people Buffy cared for, and he'd even managed to get her mom, Joyce Summers, to like him. Although that was mostly luck, plus the good word of Dawn, Buffy's little sister, who had developed an almost instantaneous crush on him.

Lying to Buffy hurt Angel in ways he hadn't thought he could be hurt again. Lying was what made relationships crumble to dust. But he'd convinced himself that if he told the truth about his past, Buffy would hate him. Everyone would hate him.

Still, truth had a way of always coming out. And come it had, carried with Darla. They had all been there. Buffy, Willow, Cordelia, Xander, Oz, and even Giles, for some reason. Two in the morning and Angel had been in the process of closing up The Bronze. Everyone had been talking when suddenly all conversation went dead. There was Darla, holding Connor, dressed in dirty jeans and an army jacket. She'd had one more bombshell to drop on Angel, but at least she'd waited till they were home to do it.

_-"He's yours," she told him. They were standing in Angel's apartment and Darla was holding Connor out to Angel._

_Angel was lost for words, feeling like the earth had suddenly fallen out from under him and he was just dangling in the air. "Why?" was all he managed to get out, which didn't even make sense._

_"I lied to you, and Angelus," Darla explained, tears running down her face. "Connor is _your_ son."_

_"But…why?" Angel still hadn't touched Connor, even though Darla clearly wanted him to. The three-year-old was staring at Angel and the apartment in fascination, sucking his thumb quietly._

_"Lee," Darla bit her lip. She had taken off her jacket and Angel could see the track marks that dotted her arms. "I was scared. I…I didn't know what was going to happen and I just," she looked down and sighed. "Your brother had more money than he could spend in a lifetime. And the people who have the money are the safe ones."_

_"Is that why you slept with him?" Angel asked bitterly. "So you'd know you were safe?"_

_Her frank answer of "Yes" startled the brunette a little. He almost laughed. "So you loved me, but you didn't think I would, what, keep us from living on the streets?"_

_"Dammit, Liam, I grew up in a trailer park!" Darla shouted, startling both Connor and Angel. "I grew up watching my Dad beat my Mom when he'd have a bad day at work. But she never left the bastard because she knew she couldn't take care of me and my sisters alone! So yeah, I'm scared of being poor, because no one cares about you when you're poor. You're a number when you're poor."_

_Angel blinked. He'd had no idea his wife was so afraid. Maybe if he had, he could've stopped the affair from happening. Speaking of which…"But wait. How do you know Connor really isn't Angelus' kid?"_

_"Because we always used a condom," she answered. Her blonde hair was greasy, darker roots showing clearly. Darla had not been living well. Connor looked healthy enough, though. "He didn't remember, but I did."_

_"Why are you here? Does Angelus know you're here? Wait, does he know I'm here?" Angel asked. _Does he know you're using drugs_, he added mentally._

_"I left L.A.," Darla answered softly, and she had never looked so tired. "I couldn't do it, Lee. I couldn't lie. So I told him the truth and then I left. Wolfram and Hart was no place to raise a child." She looked down at the track marks on her arms and sobbed. "I don't think I'm doing much better."_

_Her blue eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot as she looked at him. "But you. Lee, I saw your face when you found out I was pregnant. I heard you tell Connor that you loved him when you left L.A. Even when you thought he wasn't yours, you loved him. You're a better parent than I can be. You aren't afraid like I am. He's yours, Liam. And you deserve to have him." She held Connor out again, and this time, Angel took him. He held the warm little body close to his own. Connor didn't even wiggle around, just snuggled up to Angel and laid his head against his father's shoulder.-_

The next day, Angel had met his friends in Buffy's living room. He told them everything and for the first time understood fully how insane his life was. His story was long, made longer by the questions asked by the people he'd come to care for like family. The entire time, Connor sat in front of him, munching on Fig Newtons and coloring in the Winnie the Pooh coloring book that Joyce had given him.

But the most insane part of it was that Buffy didn't leave him. He wasn't chased out of Sunnydale by an angry mob. Sure, no one really trusted him anymore, but he was still a part of the group. Darla left after about a week and that had been the last time Angel had seen her. She left Connor with him.

What truly struck the detective as unfair was that when he _was_ finally chased out of Sunnydale, uprooting Connor from his home again, it was because of something Angelus had done. So was the story of Angel's life.

_Dammit_, the brunette though wryly. _I'm brooding again_. He could hear Spike unhooking the gas pump from the car, swearing angrily. The driver's side door was nearly ripped open as Spike threw himself in. He was growling curses under his breath as they peeled out of the gas station, leaving rubber burns behind, no doubt.

"You awake, Peaches?" Spike asked.

"Um, yeah, getting there," Angel responded, yawning a little.

"Good, means I can yell." Spike took a deep breath. "That fat, pimply little ponce of a human being wouldn't take my damn money!"

"Why's that?" Angel asked, sitting up.

"Because they don't take 'English money'," Spike hissed, faking a falsetto voice. "They speak the bloody freaking language, so what the bloody hell is wrong with the bloody money! Should shoot off his bollocks, if they've even dropped! See how inclined he is to take me money then!"

"Are you finished?" Angel questioned. Spike's rants were sometimes very amusing. The Englishman nodded. "Are we talking pounds here, or did you have euros?"

"Pounds," Spike responded. "And don't ask why they're all I have in me wallet, because 'm honestly not sure."

The detective smiled. Despite the painful assault of memories on his mind, he felt remarkably good. He'd slept off his jet lag, apparently. "How far are we from Redgrass?"

"Just a couple of miles." Spike grinned back at him. "And be ready, Peaches, 'cause when we get there, the real fun starts."

TBC 


	8. Chapter 8

Part: 7 Disclaimer: Even AU they don't belong to me 

**Feedback**: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

**Summary**: AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.

Author's Note: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. _Italics_ indicate thought 

_June 14, 2005_

_4:07 PM_

_Just Outside of Regdrass, Michigan_

They had been in the car for too long. The arguing and name-calling that always went on between Spike and Angel was quickly degenerating into snarling and shoving. The sooner they got to Redgrass, the better.

Spike was flipping though the radio stations again, while Angel watched him nervously for more signs that he was going to try driving with his feet again. The brunette shuddered at the memory. Once Spike settled on a typically appalling song, Angel relaxed a little and stifled a yawn. He was waking up very slowly.

"Hey, Spike," Angel said, a thought occurring to him, "aren't you tired or something? You've been driving all night."

"I usually stay up all night anyway," Spike responded, smoking out the open car window. "You should remember what that was like."

Angel did. Daytime was the time for the cops and the feds and the rest of the world to take care of their business. Night was when the crooks did their dealings. Being as how Angel was immersed in the world of criminals, night was also when he worked. _And none of this results in me getting a tan_, he thought, righteously bitter. _The day I die, my skin will be maybe two shades paler than it already is_.

The detective contemplated getting up from his cozy little bed in the backseat, but decided against it. He felt very…mellow. Like he could stay forever in this little bubble of peace. The sky was beginning to become pale blue and tree branches formed an arch over the road they were driving under. Things were good now, and Angel was loath to bring an end to the serenity he felt.

But the car turned and rumbled to a stop, letting Angel know that his meditation time was over. He rose up out of his seat and looked around. Then he squinted. Things were definitely not right. Either Redgrass had been reduced to rubble and been grown over by woods in the space of a few hours, or Spike had parked in the forest.

Angel pulled his shoes and socks on quickly, then got out of the car. His blonde partner was gazing contemplatively out into the forest, twiddling his thumbs.

"Um, Spike?" the brunette asked hesitantly. He hated not knowing the plan. It made him very confused and then he usually had to yell and make threats to get someone to explain what was going on. And that was just tiring.

"Oi?"

"We aren't in a city." This did not seem like the sort of thing that he needed to point out, but Spike seemed to have brief fits of total insanity. Better safe than sorry.

"Wow, did you figure that out all on your own? Bloody fabulous detective you are. Nothing gets past you."

Angel's eye twitched. "So then what are we doing here?" _You idiot_, but he didn't say that out loud.

Spike rummaged for his pack of cigarettes before noticing the vile look Angel was giving him. The Englishman rolled his eyes and responded, "Quit eyeballin' me, Peaches. Let a man have his petty vices, even if they are cancerous."

The detective barked out a laugh. "All of your vices tend to be either illegal, immoral, or cancerous. You've been smoking like a chimney since I woke up. Now, I repeat, what are we doing here?"

The most irritating part about Spike was that it didn't matter what expression he was wearing, there was always a smirk in there somewhere. If Spike was hit by a bus and then set on fire, whatever was left of his face would have a smirk on it. Such was the case as the blonde feigned confusion at Angel's question. "Why what do you mean?" That damnable smirk. "We're sittin' here in the woods, talking."

_Count to ten, Angel. Just count. One, two-_"Yes, I am aware that we are talking. Why are we in the _woods_ talking?"

"Because both of our bodies are outside of the car," said the blonde, looking completely innocent and appropriately vapid. _Three, four-_

Another sigh of frustration. "What is that you wanted to talk about, Spike?" _Five, six-_

Spike's smile was positively evil. "I forget."

_Oh screw it_. Angel moved to hit the bleached menace, but Spike moved back, hands up in the 'I surrender' position. "All right, all right. Don't get your dander up. You really are too easy, pet."

When Angel's glare only became darker, Spike sighed and pulled a map out of his duster pocket. He unrolled it and spread it across the hood of the car. "This is a map of Redgrass. Pay attention now. Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Your pockets must be really deep, to fit the entire map in there," Angel stated contemplatively. "Was that in there the whole trip?"

Spike looked at him incredulously for a moment, then shook his head. "God, what an interesting gene pool you and your brother share. Anyway, this is Redgrass." The map was about the size of a standard road map. It was covered with marks and writing that had been added in pen. All of the streets in the town were visible, in addition to some of the major buildings, like city hall or the police station. There were dots on several different streets, with addresses written under them. The dots, Angel was interested to notice, came in varying colors of red, blue, green, and purple.

The Englishman pointed to Whedon Street, where a purple dot was located with the words '1212' underneath it. "This is where we're staying. It's on the edges of the warehouse district. A bunch of people rent buildings in the area, so we have some cover there. You still have that photographic memory thing going on?" Angel nodded. "Good. Memorize what the different colors mean. Blue is neutral places, restaurants and small businesses and the like that aren't owned by Hamilton. Green is the major moneymaking areas, like the docks and the shipping centers. Red are places of badness, owned by Hamilton and his cronies." The red dots nearly covered the map.

"What do the red X's mean?" Angel asked.

Spike grimaced. "Those are places that we haven't managed to infiltrate. We don't know what goes on there. 'S a real bitch."

"So what do the purple dots stand for, then?"

"Those are places that belong to us. Safe spots."

The detective smiled humorlessly. "There aren't very many purple dots."

Smirking, Spike answered, "Noticed that, did you?"

Angel squinted at a large, yellowish stain on one corner of the map. "What it that?"

Spike studied it for a moment before answering, "Beer. 'Least, I think it was beer. I know I spilled something while I was looking at the map."

Sighing through his nose, Angel committed the map to memory. He closed his eyes and pictured the town in his mind. 1212 Whedon Street, base of operations. Blue was neutral, red was evil, purple was good, and green was money. _There._ The detective rolled his neck, happy to hear little pops as his muscles and bones relaxed. "Why are we parked in the woods instead of being in Redgrass?"

"I reckoned you needed to see a layout of the town before we actually got there. It would help you focus your obsessive little head."

"My head is not little. It's much bigger than yours," Angel responded airily, walking around the car to get in the passenger side door.

Spike snorted. "S'pose it helps to contain all the guilt. A smaller head would've exploded long before now."

Eyebrows furrowed, Angel struggled to come up with a response, but failed. It was possible that the Englishman had him there. Spike also entered the car and tried to refold the map. He was cursing angrily as the paper refused to fold correctly and started to wrinkle.

"C'mon Spike, be smarter than the paper," Angel advised cheerfully.

"'M smarter than the paper and you," the blonde man snapped, "but neither of you will cooperate."

Angel sighed and took the paper from his partner's hands and folded it perfectly. As Spike glared at him, Angel shrugged. "I like to be neat."

The red SUV rumbled to life and reversed out of the small road in the woods where it had been parked. Its occupants were mostly silent as they began the last leg of the journey to Redgrass.

"Okay," Spike muttered as he drove the car up a hill, "here we go."

Once the car reached the top, the town below sprang into view so suddenly it was almost startling. Redgrass sprawled from the bottom of the hill to the beach, which was a good amount of real estate. Lake Michigan lay as a backdrop to the city, the brilliant morning sun making the lake sparkle and dance. It was beautiful. The lake and the town made a picturesque setting. It was the sort of place that would seem perfect to settle down and raise a family.

"Right," Spike sighed, and Angel noticed his hands tightening on the wheel, "now pay attention. Learn how to get to our safe house."

"Are you okay?" It was a bad, bad thing when the person driving the car was in a fragile emotional state.

"Yeah, 'm fine. It's just…" Spike almost seemed to shudder, "bein' in this place is oppressive. Gives me the creeps."

"Huh," Angel grunted noncommittally. From where he was, he couldn't see anything overtly strange about Redgrass. If he hadn't known who owned it, the brunette would probably think it was just another coastal town.

'Now Entering City Limits. Welcome to Redgrass!' a sign proclaimed. Angel closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, he was ready. It was time to think like Wolfram and Hart's top assassin again.

With that thought in mind, the detective started noticing all the things that were wrong in Redgrass. They were little, subtle things. If a person wasn't looking for them, they would miss the clues entirely.

The first thing that popped out at Angel was the houses. Most houses gave some sort of clue as to the personality of the person that lived there. Be it a lawn gnome, pink plastic flamingo, or a shrub, the outside of a home revealed something about the person inside. The houses in Redgrass didn't. The lawns were well manicured and none of the houses seemed to be in a state of total disrepair, but that was it. There were no flower bushes or decorations or toys left in the yards. The houses looked like model homes, and Angel wouldn't have been terribly surprised to find that there was no furniture in any of the buildings.

"Do people actually live here, or are the buildings just facades?" the detective asked his partner.

Spike was nibbling his lower lip. "Um, most of 'em live in the neighboring towns. Some of Hamilton's goons actually inhabit the place, but those are mostly the high-ranking ones he wants to keep an eye on, an' they live in the more upscale neighborhoods. These houses here are mostly just places to meet, sort of like offices. If you actually went in one, you could tell right off that nobody really _lived_ there."

The close examination of the houses also brought something else to attention: the animals. Some of the houses had dogs in the backyards, but Angel saw no beagles, terriers, or small dogs of any kind. There weren't even the usual breeds, like golden retrievers or Dalmatians. Instead, there were German Shepards in every other yard, pit bulls tied to trees, and mastiffs prowling behind fences. In fact, some were breeds Angel hadn't seen before. But what all the dogs had in common was that they were huge and looked quite capable of killing a person.

"Scale of one to ten, how well-trained are these dogs?" Angel asked, his eyes drawn to a massive pit bull pacing at the end of a chain. It bared its teeth and barked as the car passed.

"We got a couple guys undercover at the docks. First day you go to work there, they bring out a German Shepard that they keep in the office. They stick it on one side of a fence and put the newbies on the other. Then they tell it to attack. According to Gunn, the thing almost bit through the fence trying to get at them. But the minute its owner told it to heel, Rover was sitting there so quietly that you could barely tell it was awake." Spike shivered a little. "I hate dogs. Scale of one to ten, I give 'em a thirty-eight."

"Who's Gunn?"

"We've been calling him the spymaster. He's in charge of all of the undercover agents we have in town, and a few of them outside. He also works at the docks an' keeps track of what goes in and out every day." The brunette filed this information away for later use.

The more Angel looked, the more details sprang out at him. There was no Starbucks, no McDonalds, no fast food restaurants of any kind. There hadn't been a mall on the map, either. None of the retailers that populated a normal American city were present in Redgrass. It was unnerving for Angel, who was so used to the lights of L.A., to see no advertisements or neon signs proclaiming store names.

A small diner drew Angel's eye and he asked his partner about it. Spike glanced at the diner, and one corner of his mouth quirked up slightly. "That, Peaches, is one of the very few places in this godforsaken town that don't have Hamilton's slimy fingers wrapped squarely around it. 'S run by a lady named Anne. She's a nice bird. Her French fries are almost better than sex."

"Thanks for that, Spike."

"Just lookin' out for my favorite poof. Reckon you haven't gotten any lately."

Angel would have protested, except that he knew it was true. Instead, he vowed to do something mean to Spike at a later date and went back to observing Redgrass.

It occurred to the detective suddenly that there was one thing that really was clearly wrong with the town. Children. There were no children, anywhere. No babies crying in houses, no ten-year-olds running around in the yards, and no teenagers roaming the streets. Added to that, and almost more disturbing, was how obvious it was. Angel didn't see any playgrounds. He saw no bikes or soccer balls or Barbie dolls anywhere. Even if he'd only lived with Connor for a few months, Angel understood that children and clutter went hand-in-hand, but Redgrass was eerily neat. Everything was under control.

"Do they have a school building here?" How strange, that Angel should feel so appalled at the absence of children. It was as if, without their presence, things were so fundamentally flawed that it was obvious to anyone.

Spike snorted. "Yeah, they got a fake elementary school. 'S where they house the prostitutes they bring in."

"That is unnecessarily creepy."

"No arguments there."

Wrong, wrong, wrong. Everything that was so terribly off about Redgrass leapt out at Angel clearly and he knew it wasn't just because he was looking specifically for these things. No, any normal person would catch on eventually. The entire town gave off the feeling of looking at someone in a Halloween mask. It was obvious that if you peeled back the top layer, there was something else underneath.

Reaching Whedon Street was almost a relief. At least there was one place of normality amongst all the strangeness. The brunette listened as Spike explained how the workers that did remain lived in the warehouses, away from any prying eyes that weren't in on the operation.

Angel's new home was a nondescript brown building. It appeared to have two floors. The narrow slits of windows were all located high up on the building, and there was only one door that Angel could see.

"Is there more than one exit?" the brunette asked, staring at the warehouse critically.

Spike gave him an annoyed glance. "Of course there is. I've been doing this almost as long as you have. 'S on the side of building. We painted it the same color as the walls and there's no outside doorknob."

Nonplussed, Angel simply nodded and continued running over his mental inventory of what made a building safe. "Are the windows blacked out?

"No, we have boxes blocking them so it doesn't look like we're deliberately trying to hide anything. Can we go inside?"

"What about Hamilton's people? What's our excuse for using this building?"

"As far as they know, it's where Gunn hangs his do-rag. C'mon, inside, you need to meet Wesley."

"What about the neighbors?"

"We have none. You're being a ponce."

"Have you checked out the buildings around us, though?"

"Argh, yes, all of them."

"Daily checks of them?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "If that will make you happy, yes, the buildings will be checked."

Angel stared at his partner. "You are going to check them personally."

The blonde opened his mouth to protest, but Angel glared hard. He knew what he was doing. He was in his element. "Angelus put me in charge, _William_, so we're doing this my way. You will be checking the buildings every night. I want to know what's going on around us at all times."

Spike muttered something about, "poncey-haired control freaks", but did not protest further.

Angel tapped his fingers on his arm for a moment before his next point came to him. "This place has a basement, correct?" Spike nodded. "Does the basement have sewer access?"

"Yeah," the blonde drawled, glancing occasionally at the door to 1212 Whedon Street.

"Do we have a map of the sewers?"

Spike looked like a kid who'd gotten caught cheating on a test. "No," he ground out, "and why the bleedin' hell would we need one?"

"No one ever expects an attack from below," Angel explained. "Therefore, it's helpful to know what exactly is below."

"Fine, fine, can we go into the nice building now?"

The brunette smiled amiably, basking in his rare chance to be the annoying one for a change. "Well, sure, if it'll make you happy, we'll go in."

Rolling his eyes, Spike exited the car and headed up to the building, Angel close behind him. The detective was amused to see Spike wince when the car automatically locked with a pleasant chirp.

"Do I get a set of keys?" Angel asked as he watched his partner choose one key out of the huge keyring he had stored in his pocket and begin to unlock the door.

"No, you'll be required to break in," Spike responded, struggling to get the second lock opened.

Finally, the door to the warehouse swung open quickly and Spike slipped inside, gesturing for Angel to follow him. The interior of the warehouse was dimly lit, a few bare, dangling bulbs illuminating stacks of boxes piled one on top of the other. Most of them looked like they contained electronic equipment, but Angel would have to actually look inside to be sure. A small metal staircase in the far left corner led up through the ceiling to what was presumably the second floor. The floor was concrete and cold.

"Seems…homey," Angel muttered, staring around distastefully. This was not going to be a fun place to live.

Spike smirked at him again and approached the far wall. Angel squinted at it. The wall seemed…strange, somehow. Then he realized that it was too close, when compared with the wall outside. The wall he was looking at was actually built in the middle of the warehouse.

It was almost fascinating to watch as Spike approached the wall and knocked three times. There was the sound of fumbling, and then a wholly unnoticeable door swung open. _No outer knob for this door either, _Angel observed.

"Uh yeah, Angel, this is Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. Likes to be called Percy," said Spike, gesturing to the man who had opened the door. "Percy, this is Angel. Likes to be called Peaches."

Angel's first impression of Wesley was that he had lost his favorite razor and refused to shave without it. He didn't have a beard, exactly, more of a halfway point between bearded and clean-shaven. Other than that peculiarity, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce looked normal, much more so than some of the people Spike had introduced him to. The new man was actually slightly taller than Angel, although much skinnier. His eyes were almost the same shade of blue as Spike's. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a light brown, long sleeved T-shirt.

The man grimaced at Spike, his lips tightening in a way that Angel had always associated with the British. "Shut up," Wesley ordered the blonde, and Angel mentally cheered himself. Definitely British.

"Wot? You know you like it when I call you Percy." Spike smiled amiably.

Wesley glared at him once more, before focusing his attention on the detective. "You would be Angelus' twin brother, then?"

"Uh, yeah." Angel glanced at Spike for a moment. "For the record, I don't want to be called Peaches. Angel is just fine."

"Hmm," Wesley murmured noncommittally, looking Angel up and down. The brunette felt a bit like an insect under the microscope, so intense was Wesley's scrutiny of him.

Silence reigned as the two men took each other in. "Right," Spike finally said. "This is going to be a real party. Gotta go fetch the others to give 'em a proper introduction to Peaches here, so I'll just leave you two crazy kids to it. Percy, be a good lad and show the Great Poof to his room, will ya?" And with a swirl of leather and the click of locks in the door, Spike was gone.

The two brunettes stared at the departing figure for a moment. "Spike is annoying," Angel remarked after a moment.

"Indeed," Wesley agreed. They glanced at each other uncomfortably for a moment, the awkwardness like a tangible thing.

"I would introduce myself more fully," Wesley said suddenly, "but Spike will be back with the others on our team, and it would simply be repetitive."

"Okay," Angel agreed readily. "Um, do I have someplace to, y'know, sleep?"

"Oh, er, yes," Wesley answered brightly, happy to have something to break the silence. "We have a secondary staircase back here that we use to get to most of the rooms on the second floor. The staircase in front leads up to a façade of a room. No one actually sleeps there."

"Huh," Angel responded. The back area of the warehouse was an exact opposite of the front. There were papers and books scattered everywhere, in addition to shoes, empty food wrappers, and a weapon or two sitting on a table. Several desks were crowded with maps and pictures of various people. "This is…crowded."

"Yes, we'll familiarize you with all of it later, once the entire group is together. Theoretically, we also have another man coming in from L.A. tonight, but who knows?" Wesley shrugged as he led Angel up the metal staircase.

The staircase opened up into a narrow hallway, with doors lining each side. "Your room is the last one to the left. The bathroom is the door at the end of the hall. Try not to be too long in it during the morning."

Angel was debated explaining that he couldn't function well unless he took a long time in the bathroom, but Wesley was already going back down the staircase. "Uh, it was nice to meet you," Angel called to him, not really sure of himself.

Wesley paused and stared at him for a long time. "You are very different from your brother," he said at last, his face unreadable.

"Well, I try," Angel joked weakly.

That, strangely enough, made Wesley smile for the first time since Angel had arrived. "I would speak with you more, but I'm trying to research something," the Englishman explained, seeming more friendly now. "I notice you have no suitcases."

"Er, yeah, they're in the car…which Spike has driven away." Angel sighed. "Crap. So, it turns out that at the moment I just have this backpack."

Wesley smiled again. "Well, you could unpack whatever is in the backpack and sleep. Or come downstairs. Whatever you like." With a final nod, Wesley descended the stairs.

Angel blinked a few times and then continued on to his room. It had been a long night. He was still tired.


	9. Chapter 9

Part: 9 **Disclaimer**: Even AU they don't belong to me 

**Feedback**: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

**Summary**: AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.

**Author's Note**: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. _Italics_ indicate thought.

**A/N 2**: Apologies to the readers for the time it's been taking me to post these last couple chapters. I've had a killer case of the flu, and instead of using my time wisely, I've been watching TV and drifting in and out of consciousness. shame

**Dedicated to**: Alvin, the chipmunk whose been hanging around outside my kitchen window.

_June 14, 2005_

_4:45 AM_

_1212 Whedon Street_

Angel was still exhausted. That in itself was strange, because he had slept at least a few solid hours on the way to Redgrass. Maybe his body just refused to feel rested when it had needed to curl nearly into a fetal position to be able to lay out on the seat. After yelling down to Wesley that he was going to catch a nap, Angel stretched out on the bed in his room.

It was not the most luxurious place he had ever slept in. The room was a small space, not very good for pacing. Seven steps left, seven steps right. There was a desk in the far-left corner and a bed across from it. The door opened nearly into a chest of drawers. A bare lightbulb and a lamp on the desk were the only sources of light. The walls were an off-white color that Angel couldn't identify, and there were no windows. That was it. If he had to define 'spartan', it would look like this. Still, the detective had slept in a Dumpster once, so this room really wasn't so bad. Besides, the sheets smelled dryer-fresh. Bliss.

But despite the fact that he felt the weariness in his bones and the bed was quite comfortable, Angel couldn't sleep. In fact, he was still practically humming. It was a strange contrast and Angel did not like it at all. After tossing and turning for a while, the detective sighed and pulled out his incredibly cool Nextel Walkie-talkie. Angelus had given it to him before he'd left L.A. The CEO's number was the first and only one on it, and Angel hit the button with relish. Oh, he might hate the game, but Angel loved the toys that came with it.

The phone rang twice before Angelus' voice came on, sounding grouchy. "Do you know what time it is?"

Angel snorted. "You put me on the red-eye flight. I have no sympathy for you."

The CEO sighed and Angel could hear the creak of bedsprings in the background. "I had logical reasons for putting you on a late flight. What's your excuse?"

"Revenge."

"Ah." In Angel's experience, Angelus did not get into Asshole Mode until he'd had his coffee. Logically, this would be the reverse, but Angelus O'Brien was a study in paradoxes. So in the meantime, the detective could look forward to a mostly insult-free conversation with his brother.

"Is there any particular reason why you didn't tell me it was Spike that I was partnered with?" The sheets were becoming warmer as Angel lay on them in only his pants, studying the spots on the ceiling. He felt nearly as peaceful as he had in the car.

"Yeah, I figured you would bitch and moan about it, and I didn't feel like dealing with that," Angelus responded. The detective could imagine his brother moving through his penthouse apartment, turning on lights as he went. He'd slept on the couch there enough times to have the layout memorized.

"Okay, but why am I needed at all? Spike has almost as much experience as I do, and he hasn't been out of the game for two years." Angel wasn't really trying to back out of the job, not when he was already in position to start doing some damage. It was more a point of curiosity than anything else.

"First of all, you haven't been out of the game, you've just been sitting on the sidelines like a sissy girl." There were beeps in the background, probably the coffee machine. "Secondly, on occasion, I will need you to pretend to be me, visiting Hamilton."

"Why?"

"Because while 'I' am there, no one will be looking for me."

"And that's when you can do all your sneaky business. No wonder the Senior Partners don't trust you."

Angelus laughed harshly. "The Senior Partners don't trust any of their employees, boyo. That's what makes Wolfram and Hart such an interesting and competitive place."

"But you could have just had me do your errands while you were in Redgrass," Angel pointed out. Birds were chirping somewhere outside. He didn't hear birds that much in L.A. The smog drove many of them off.

"The 'errands' would have made you squeamish."

"Also, being in Redgrass would make you a much easier target if Hamilton wanted to take you out. So better me than you."

"Well if you have to put a pessimistic spin on things, then yes, you are now the easier target." Angelus took a sip of something, doubtlessly coffee, and Angel mentally cursed. _Great, now he'll have his caffeine hit and become a creep again_. "Also, Spike is no longer allowed to command missions."

"Why?" What had the blonde menace done now?

"Last time he was on his own, he approached the man we were trying to get money out of in his own office." Another sip. "He was armed with a semi-automatic and an unopened bag of Fritos. He walked up to the target's desk, held up his bag of chips, and said 'This is you.' He then put the bag on the desk and slammed a law book down onto the chips, making them explode everywhere, and said 'This is you if you screw with us.' The resulting firefight caused $600,000 in damage to building, the street outside, and an emu."

"Ah." _Spike really is crazy_. "Wait, an emu?"

"It's hard to explain. Have you met the group yet?"

"Um, no, I'm in the room they gave me. The only person I've seen besides Spike is Wesley Windham-Pryce."

"Hmmm," Angelus muttered thoughtfully. "Watch out for him. He'll try and get inside your head."

Angel actually laughed at that one. "I've had to live with you all my life, Angelus. I really don't think some British guy who doesn't shave much is going to crack me."

"Excellent point. I'll talk with you later." Another sip, and silence. "Judging by the fact that you won't hang up the phone as I so clearly want you to, there's still something you want?"

"Am I only on this mission because I look like you and that's something you need?" Angel hadn't even been planning to say that. Apparently, his mouth was no longer connected to his brain.

The CEO sighed loudly over the phone before grating out, "If I give you some kind of pep talk, will you leave me alone?"

"Possibly."

"All right, fine. You are the best, Angel. You see the possibilities that others don't. That's what we're good at, you and I. Seeing the angles and finding ways to get in and out of a situation. If this plan is going to work, you have to be in it. Are you happy now?"

What a fascinating and multi-layered question _that_ was. Was he happy? Had he ever really been happy? Angel remembered moments of happiness, of peace and contentment and joy, but that's all they were. Moments. So of course he wasn't happy. He wasn't made for being happy.

"It'll do," the detective told his brother solemnly.

"Good. Don't ever call me this early in the morning again unless there is a nuke heading straight for L.A." The click of disconnection echoed in Angel's ear. He felt tired now. Like the weight of the world had settled back onto his shoulders. But the detective was busy loosing himself in the warm sheets that smelled so clean that it made him shiver. Angel's eyes felt heavy and he drifted into sleep. He dreamed of mirrors that talked back.

Wesley's POV 

As Angel made his phone call, Wesley was making a call of his own. Looking up and seeing someone who looked exactly like Angelus had nearly given the Englishman a stroke. But Angel was clearly different from his brother. Wesley was glad for this. Angel surely didn't have his brother's capacity for evil, and that would make things much easier.

"Yeah?" Spike answered when he finally picked up his phone.

"Have you collected the man from L.A.?" Wesley asked, leaning back in his chair. His spine had what felt like a permanent kink in it from leaning over his papers for so long.

"I have. Damn good thing the airport he arrived at was closer than Lansing." There was the noise of someone talking in the background and Spike hissed in annoyance. "This git keeps trying to change my radio station. No, no I will not turn on 'real music'! This is _real music_!"

"Are you having trouble, Spike?" Wesley asked, falsely sympathetic.

"No, it's just-get your hands off the bloody radio or I'm going to shoot you between the eyes!" Wesley could hear Spike sigh. "All right, maybe I am having some trouble. This guy is a much bigger pain in the arse than Peaches, 'least when it comes to the radio. Also, he keeps calling me Blondie. 'E's as bad as Harmony."

"Angelus' secretary?"

"Yeah, that's the one. No, we are not stopping to get a drink. 'Specially not some poncey seabreeze. They probably don't even _make_ seabreezes in Michigan."

"I'm sure they do, somewhere," Wesley offered.

"Look, Percy, I'm trying to drive and keep this poof from changing my radio station. Is there something you wanted?"

"Actually, I wanted to yell at you," said Wesley calmly.

"Huh. Never reckoned you actually _could_ yell at someone. Wanna try?"

"No thank you, I'm quite fine now. I only wish you had called before you actually arrived at our building. I'd have had the chance to tidy the place up." Wesley glanced around at the paper explosion that was the back portion of the warehouse. There wasn't a chance in hell that he would_ ever _volunteer to clean it up. Clearing the floor alone would take days.

Spike laughed. "Lousy excuse, Head Boy. You wanted to be all prepared to 'evaluate him'." The blonde chuckled again.

Wesley was irritated that Spike had figured that out. The blonde was much more intelligent than his appearance would suggest, and Wesley would have to remember that. "Be that as it may, Spike, you should still call before you try to get into the building. If I hadn't heard your voice, I probably would've shot you." _Which would have been fun,_ the Englishman thought wistfully.

"Sure, Percy, whatever you say. Was that all?"

"Yes." Try as he might, Wesley was unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

Spike muttered something impolite, assumedly to the person in his car, and then returned his attention to Wesley. "Can I give you some advice, four-eyes?"

Wesley scowled at the mention of his glasses. "Of course, but try not to be offended if I hang up in the middle."

"Will do. My advice, then, is to stop trying to outsmart Angelus. Don't try and beat him at his own game, because it's a game he made up and he'll always be number one at it. Figure out your own game."

The brunette could not figure out what the correct response was, so he simply said, "Goodbye, Spike."

"Be seein' ya, Percy."

Wesley turned his cell phone off and glanced at the ceiling. Up there was Liam O'Brien, brother of Angelus. Whether or not Liam knew it, he was closer to Angelus than anyone else on the planet. Wesley planned to use that to his advantage.

Things had not always been as complicated as they were for Wesley Windham-Pryce. There had been a time, admittedly long ago, when he had never needed to think about double-crossing and learning people's weaknesses. He had been a prominent member of the Watcher's Council, a semi-secret government organization designed to monitor criminal activities. He was second only to his own father in the amount of cases he had solved and arrests he had made. But that was before-

_Enough,_ Wesley thought to himself. It was illogical to sit around thinking of all of the things that had gone wrong. Illogical, and not at all conducive to what he was trying to do. With one more upward glance, Wesley returned to his papers.

Angel POV 

If Angel could have chosen one particular time to exist in, it would be the time just after waking up. When everything was warm, and soft, and quiet. The brunette closed his eyes, wishing he could stay beneath the covers in the comfortable darkness. But Angel's sense of responsibility was always there, and it drove him from his bed. After grabbing his toothbrush and toothpaste, plus his shampoo, conditioner, and hair gel, the detective staggered from his room to the bathroom.

Fortunately for Angel, it was a clean bathroom. The white tiles had no suspicious stains on them, the toilet looked as if it was flushed regularly, and the mirror was fairly clean. A small mountain of folded towels sat in one corner, and Angel assumed that these were for everyone. Angel tended to brush his teeth for about two minutes, but this no longer made his gums bleed as it once had. Afterwards, he showered and spent a considerable amount of time making sure his hair was in order. This didn't make him vain. It didn't. He just liked to know that his hair would stay in place and not look silly. He dressed himself in a pair of loose jeans and a white T-shirt, and then went through the process of making sure none of his clothes had lint or deep wrinkles in them.

When Angel finally came down the stairs into the lower floor, it was to find Wesley in the exact same spot where he had been before. "Did you move at all?"

The man, sitting at his desk and making small notes on paper, didn't look up. "I let in Spike and the new man, but other than that, no."

"When do you sleep?" Angel wondered.

This at least caused Wesley to glance upwards. "When I can," he said, with a slight smile.

Angel smiled back and asked, "So where is Spike and this new guy?"

"Well, Angelcakes, I can't account for Spike, but I'm right here," came a voice from behind Angel. A familiar voice. A voice that most certainly should not have been in Redgrass, Michigan.

Krevlornswath Deathwok, a.k.a. Lorne, was most recognizable due to two features: his rather beak-like nose and his bizarre yellow-orange hair color. Other than those two things, Lorne was a normal-looking, extremely well dressed guy and certainly did not warrant the horrified stare that Angel was giving him now.

"Um, Angel? Muffin? Is there something on my face?" Lorne asked, looking in confusion at his friend.

"WHAT are _you_ doing _here_?" Angel asked after several tries. Lorne and Angel knew each other well, being as how Angel was a frequent visitor to his nightclub, Karitas. The drinks were good enough to block out the karaoke going on in the background, and Lorne often helped the detective find new clients. But this was not L.A., and therefore Lorne should not have been standing in front of him. Unfortunately, this logic contrasted sharply with reality.

"I'll take that to mean you aren't happy to see me," Lorne said with a shrug.

"You two know each other, then?" Wesley asked redundantly.

"Me and Angelwings here? We go way back."

Wesley looked perplexed. "'Angelwings'?"

"Lorne, what are you doing here?" Angel asked again, going up and poking Lorne in the chest just to make sure he was real.

Lorne patiently moved the detective's hand away from him. "Twelve days ago, a friend of mine who lives in this area and also runs a club called, wondering if I'd be interested in a partnership. Being as how business has never been better, I declined." Lorne sat down in one of the chair that were scattered around the backroom. "Four days after that, your pretty yet oh-so-terrifying brother came and visited my humble establishment. He advised that it would be in my best interest to take move on up to Michigan. Even offered to pay for my traveling and expenses. And so here I am." He spread his arms and smiled, looking slightly nauseous nonetheless.

"You didn't mistake him for me at first, did you?" Angel asked, wincing. People who confused the twins often were faced with unpleasant surprises.

"Oh God no," Lorne snorted. "His clothes are much more expensive. Besides, he had his creepy turned on high. Gotta give him points for the leather pants though."

"Leather pants?" Angel and Wesley asked at the same time.

"I believe he was going clubbing and couldn't fit threatening me into any other day." Lorne shrugged. "Don't suppose you have a drink around here anywhere?"

"We got white wine in the fridge," Spike told him, emerging from the staircase. Angel decided he must have come up while the detective was showering, and made a mental note to start paying attention like the hitman he was. To have Lorne and Spike both be around without him ever noticing was unacceptably sloppy. _Sloppy gets you killed_, he reminded himself sternly.

"We have wine?" Wesley actually put down his pen to consider this. "Why?"

"You have a fridge?" Angel asked. "Where?"

"Food just shows up in there, Wesley, you know as well as I do that no one knows where it comes from. Peaches, there's a little room on the side of the warehouse where we have a fridge and a TV," Spike pointed to a door on the far side of the room. "Surprised you didn't see it, old man. Are you getting senile?"

"No, Spike, I was just blinded from hours of staring at your hair," Angel snapped, hiding his own annoyance that he hadn't spotted the door. _I really am out of it._ "Anyway, Lorne, what does a club have to do with you being here?"

"I believe I can answer this," Wesley cut in. "The club your friend called you about, was it called the Cold Front?" Lorne nodded. "Right. That's a club located just outside of Redgrass, and a good portion of the workers visit it when their shifts end. Because the Cold Front is privately owned, we haven't been able to get a decent spy in it. But it seems Angelus has taken care of this problem on his own."

"Wish he'd tell us about things like this," Spike muttered, flopping down in one of the motley assortment of chairs.

"Really? None of you had any idea why I was here?" Lorne asked. When Wesley and Spike shook their heads, Lorne looked troubled. "That's…really not encouraging. Where'd you say that wine was?"

As Lorne rummaged through the refrigerator, Angel leaned against the doorway and examined the heretofore-unknown room. It was very small, about the size of his bedroom, and there was barely space to open the door before it ran into the fridge. A medium-sized TV (connected to a very expensive looking, probably stolen, VCR) was perched on a dangerously unsteady corner table. A lawn chair was set in front of the TV, in the reclined position, and a bare lightbulb was the only source of illumination, besides the fridge light and the TV itself.

"Everything here is strange," Angel remarked to his friend, who was examining the wine with distaste.

"Yeah, especially this crappy Wal-Mart brand wine," Lorne responded, looking the bottle up and down as if deciding whether or not it was poisoned.

"Did Angelus tell you I was here?" Angel asked, following Lorne out into the main room.

"Do you have a corkscrew?" Lorne asked Wesley, who rummaged in his desk until he, miraculously, pulled one out. To Angel, the club owner said, "He did indeed tell me that you were here. If he hadn't, I would've taken my chances and run as fast as my somewhat-inebriated legs could carry me." Lorne looked at Angel for a moment. "But you aren't happy that I'm here."

"It's not that," Angel told his friend. "It's just that seeing people from L.A. here, now, is really disturbing. No offense. It's like seeing a polar bear in the Sahara Desert."

"Fair enough," said Lorne with a nod. "Blondie, I don't suppose you have actual cups as opposed to that stack of plastic ones sitting by you?" Spike shook his head and tossed Lorne a cup.

Lorne sighed in a very put-upon way, uncorked the wine, and poured it into the plastic cup. "Nothing like cheap wine from a crappy cup," he reflected cheerfully after taking a sip. "You want any, milk dud?"

"Yeah, why not?" Angel took the proffered bottle, grabbed a cup of his own, and took a sip. _Wow. This really _is_ cheap wine_. He took another sip nonetheless.

"Milk dud?" Spike asked curiously. "Always knew you were a poof."

"I thought we agreed not to call me that," Angel told Lorne tersely, after shooting Spike a filthy look. Lorne simply shrugged and poured himself more wine. Angel chose a chair, cleared off some of the papers on it, and relaxed backwards into it. The four men sat in comfortable silence, broken only by Spike asking for some of the booze. When Angel looked towards Wesley to ask if he wanted to partake in the Wal-Mart wine, he was startled to find the Englishman was staring straight at him in that very unnerving way.

Brow furrowed, Angel opened his mouth to ask what was so fascinating, but at that moment came three sharp knocks on the door, followed by a voice shouting, "Yo, it's Gunn. Open up."

Spike grabbed the keys that sat on Wesley's desk and opened the door, admitting a tall black man and a short, very skinny, white woman. They both glanced curiously at Lorne, but Angel was unprepared for the way they stopped short and looked with something akin to horror at him.

Finally, hostility nearly radiating off of him, the black man asked, "What is _he_ doing here?"

Oh. _Now_ he knew what was going on. It had happened dozens of times before. Carefully setting the wine cup on the floor, Angel stood up. "I'm not Angelus," he said quietly. "I'm his twin brother. The name's Angel."

"Gunn," the black man said. Angel would have flinched and started looking for the weapon if he hadn't remembered Spike telling him about their 'spymaster'. "You the guy that's been sent to look over our shoulders?" Gunn looked unimpressed.

"I've been sent to take over operations, yeah," Angel responded, crossing his arms. Great. Gunn was not going to make things easy, he could tell already.

"Oh goody," Gunn sighed. To Wesley, he asked, "English, are we gonna debrief or can I go up to my room and get some shut eye?"

"I thought it best to go over the events of tonight and introduce everybody," Wesley explained, and Angel was interested to note that Gunn seemed to at least tolerate orders from Wesley. _So if I can't get Gunn to do something, maybe Wesley can._

"Whatever," the spymaster responded, flopping down in one of the chairs. He glanced at Lorne. "Who are you?"

"I'm Lorne, and you're very hostile," the club owner responded, looking Gunn up and down.

Gunn paused, as if trying to decide whether or not to be offended, but in the end he merely shrugged. "Yeah, I get that sometimes."

A small movement drew Angel's attention to the woman, who had been standing unobtrusively behind Gunn. She was, as he had previously observed, extremely skinny, but very pretty. "Hi," she greeted, and her smile was the warmest one he had seen since leaving Doyle and Cordelia in L.A.

Angel smiled back, despite wondering what this woman was doing working for Wolfram and Hart. Sure, sometimes the nicest people could turn out to be serial killers, but the little brunette's kindness seemed to be real. "Hi. I, um, didn't catch your name."

"Oh," she laughed, and Angel placed her accent as classic Texas. "I'm Winifred Burkle, but that's kind of a mouthful, so most people just call me Fred."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Fred," Angel smiled.

"Nice to meet you too." She shifted her eyes towards Lorne. "I didn't forget you or anything, Lorne, wasn't it? It's really nice to meet you too. I like your hair. It's kind of strawberry colored."

Angel could tell already that Lorne was charmed by this girl, and his smile was very wide as he said, "Well thank you, sweetie. Your hair's very nice too, and it's actually natural, which gives you bonus points."

Spike cleared his throat loudly, and asked, "So everyone knows each other? Jolly good. Here's a quick rundown of what everybody does, for those who just got here." The blonde pointed as Wesley. "Percy here knows everything. He's like a walking episode of _Jeopardy_, so if you have any questions about random, stupid bollocks, like why the sky is blue, go to him. He also knows something about everyone, so don't tell him any deep dark secrets. Plus, he's very good with weapons and the weapons trade in general, which is impressive for someone as prissy as him." Wesley sent Spike a foul look, which his countryman ignored.

Spike pointed at Fred. "That leads us to Fred. She's our weapons expert, and works undercover in Hamilton's weapons ring. Scares the hell out of the men working there. Also, she can kill you with math, if need be." Fred rolled her eyes and tried not to smile.

"Over there, we have Charlie boy." Gunn had propped his feet up on another nearby chair and raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting to see what Spike had to say about him. "He works undercover at the docks. Anything goes down in Redgrass, he knows about it. If he doesn't, he isn't doing his job."

"And what do you do, Spike?" Angel asked.

"Me? Well, I'm just talented at everything."

Angel snorted. If he had been in a mean mood, he would have brought up poetry, but the wine had made him even mellower than usual. Plus, he actually liked Spike's poems.

Spike, seeing that Angel had no comment, continued, "For those of you who don't know, Angel is here to pretend he's in charge and make sure that everything runs smoothly. And possibly impersonate his brother once or twice. And Lorne, apparently, is going to be our man in the Cold Front."

Silence reigned for a moment as everyone digested the information. Eventually, Wesley stood up and said, "Well, I suppose we should discuss what's happened tonight."

Angel settled in for what he knew from experience was going to be a long, boring regurgitation of facts that he would have to wade through in order to find snippets of useful information. _Oh joy._


	10. Chapter 10

**Part**: 10

**Disclaimer**: Even AU they don't belong to me

**Feedback**: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

**Summary**: AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.

**Author's Note**: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. _Italics_ indicate thought.

_June 18, 2005_

_12: 04 PM_

_Outside of town hall, Redgrass, Michigan_

"Did you know that you can make soap out of human fat?" Spike asked, leaning back in the seat of the SUV.

"I did know that, actually," Angel responded, studying the building in front of him carefully. "I read it in _Fight Club_."

"Never read the book. I saw the movie though," the blonde man muttered. Angel had forbidden him from lighting a cigarette, citing second-hand smoke and the possibility that anyone outside would see the glowing ash as his reasons. But now Spike had nothing to do with his hands, besides tap the steering wheel and gesture as he talked.

"Did you like it?"

"Oh, hell yeah. Never saw the split-personality thing coming." Spike hummed tunelessly for a moment, and then asked, "Where in the _Fight Club _book did they talk about making soap out of people? I don't remember it from the movie."

"I don't think it was in the movie, but yeah, Tyler Durden tricked Marla's mother into giving him thigh fat to make soap."

"Ah." Spike paused again and tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel. "That's disgusting."

"Why are you asking about making soap from people in the first place, Spike?" Honestly, Angel didn't really have a problem with it, however strange the topic was. So far, the reconnaissance had been extremely boring. The partners were parked in an alley outside of the building where one Marcus Hamilton was meeting with the head honchos of his different organizations.

The building in question was marked with a big red X, but Angel was okay with that. It wasn't necessary to hear what Hamilton's lieutenants were telling him, because the detective already knew in advance. Wolfram and Hart had spies in every part of Hamilton's set-up, and they were well trained. Hamilton might have known the huge things, the secret things, but Angel knew the details, like what the guards at the docks liked on their sandwiches. And that could be just as important, in the long run.

"What the hell's takin' them so long anyway?" Spike asked, shifting positions again. Angel wondered vaguely if the blonde man had ever considered Ritalin or something similar to help him relax.

"Well, if the reports are done, he'll be in there glad-handing his flunkies," the detective explained, temporarily casting aside thoughts of sneaking tranquilizers into Spike's drinks. "Y'know, telling them to keep up the good work because he'll be on them like ugly on a one-eyed dog if they don't. Oh, and the ones that have screwed up recently will be treated to veiled threats and insults the entire time. It's pretty much hell for everyone but Hamilton, unless anybody did something really great. Then they'll suck up without shame and hope for treats."

Spike was looking at him like he'd sprouted a second head. Angel shrugged and added, "I've sat through plenty of these things with and as Angelus. They're all the same after a while."

"I'll take your word on that," the blonde responded, sinking back into his seat and staring at the door to Hamilton's building. The car they were in was actually about three streets away from town hall, where the meeting was taking place. Night-vision binoculars were required to see the door clearly, which Angel did not mind because, hey, how cool were night-vision binoculars? Also, being farther away from the building drastically reduced the chances of being spotted. Spike and Angel had even covered the headlights, bumpers, and other shiny metallic surfaces with electrical tape, in order to prevent any light from reflecting off the car. Unless someone actually walked down the alley, it would be very hard to tell that a car was there at all, which was exactly how the two mercenaries liked it.

Spike's fingers started to tap on the wheel again after about twelve minutes, and Angel waited for the inevitable talking that had to follow. He was not disappointed. "So why are we here, anyway? We have pictures and files on all the major players in this godforsaken town, not like we're gonna learn anymore sittin' in a filthy alley."

"I need to see Hamilton," Angel explained, keeping his eyes focused on the door. "See him moving around and talking. Then I can understand him."

Spike considered this for a moment, and then rolled his eyes. "That's bloody stupid."

"So are you," Angel responded passively.

His partner was about to hiss out a response when the detective held up a hand to indicate the need for silence. The night-vision goggles were raised as a plethora of people exited town hall and descended the steps. Everyone in the group was male and dressed in sharp looking suits. At the head of the group was a very tall man who had the sort of square-jawed, clean-cut look that businesses loved. This was a powerful man and every inch of him screamed that. It was Marcus Hamilton, and Angel was impressed. It was very strange for the detective to see someone who was just _bigger_ than him. Wesley and Gunn were both slightly taller, but Angel took up the most space, had the most presence. Size was something both the O'Brien twins had used to intimidate others time and time again, and it was a fair bet that Hamilton used this tactic as well.

"That's the boss man himself," Spike said unnecessarily. "See that bloke next to him? That's the mayor, Richard Wilkins. Talkin' to him, you'd never guess he was a ruthless, scary bastard; seems more like a Boy Scout leader. 'Course, Hamilton owns him." Apparently, the blonde had decided to give his partner a full rundown of everyone on the steps of town hall. "The guy right behind Wilkins is his assistant, Trick. Does most of Wilkins' dirty work."

"Who's the bald rodent man?" Angel asked, momentarily taking his eyes from Hamilton to observe the people around the criminal.

"That's Snyder. Runs the elementary school-slash-brothel. Reminds me of my former headmaster, come to think of it."

Angel lowered the goggles for a moment. "So wait. That man is a pimp?"

"Frightening thought, innit?"

"We have to rescue the innocent prostitutes."

"Maybe they'll even reward us." Both men were lost in happy contemplation of such a reward, before focusing once again on their observations.

"The smug-looking fellow right behind Hamilton is Ethan Rayne, head of his drug-trafficking agency. Born sadist. According to some of our people, the girls at the brothel are terrified of getting sent to escort Rayne anywhere." Angel could understand that. Even from a distance, Rayne had a sharpness about him that was disconcerting.

"Who's the kid?" the detective asked, focusing on a nerdy-looking boy who was lagging slightly behind the group.

"That's Warren. Total ponce, but a mechanical wizard. He set up a surveillance system that would make Big Brother jealous."

Hamilton was exchanging some parting words with his lackeys before sending them on their way. Cars with chauffeurs waited at the foot of stairs, and Angel would have bet his left arm that each and every one of the vehicles had tracking devices in them.

"Hey," the detective muttered, focusing on a handsome man with light brown hair, "he wasn't in the files. He's the vapid-looking male model to the left of Rayne."

Spike raised the goggles and squinted into them before chuckling. "Ah, yeah, he's new. Runs the hospital. Name's Ben Glorificus. We found out about him when some of our people had to be drug tested. He's completely dotty."

"He's crazy?"

"He has a split-personality. His other identity is an uber-bitch that calls herself Glory. Makes Benny boy wander around in dresses. The other workers at the hospital love it."

"They're never just criminals anymore," Angel complained. "Now they have to have split-personalities."

Hamilton was finally done speaking with his employees and most of them entered the waiting cars, which sped off through the nearly empty streets. This left Hamilton, Wilkins, and Trick standing at the steps. Hamilton said something without turning around to look at his flunkies, and they scrambled up the stairs quickly.

This left Hamilton standing at the bottom of town hall, in his town, looking around into the darkness of the night. The night-vision goggles lent him a sickly greenish glow, and he looked almost demonic as he stared at the town he owned.

"Can he see us?" Spike asked, and Angel was not surprised to hear a worried tone in the blonde's voice. The way Hamilton was staring out into the darkness reminded the detective of a wolf who'd just caught the scent of prey.

"No, but…" Angel trailed off. Hamilton was smirking now, a mean, sneaky smirk that did nothing to settle the detective's nerves. "I think he knows we're out here. Angelus would do it sometimes. Just know when something was about to go down."

Spike lowered the goggles. "Hunter always knows when he's being hunted."

Standing there in a smart suit, smug and powerful, Hamilton looked unbeatable. He looked like there was nothing in the world that could topple him. Angel knew that was a lie. Image may have seemed like everything, but it was just that. An image. What was inside really was all that counted. As Angel stared at Hamilton, he saw a weakness. A chink in the armor. Hamilton saw this town and everything in it as his, and that made him arrogant.

Angel smiled, lowered his goggles, and waited for Hamilton to go back inside. _He thinks he's safe. He thinks he can take on anything._ The detective's smile would not have looked out of place on his brother's face. Angel was about to prove Hamilton very wrong.

When Hamilton finally turned and walked back into the town hall, Angel opened his car door and started removing the electrical tape. Spike got out and began wordlessly helping too. It was only when they were both back in the car and driving down the road that Spike asked, "So, are we finished with the stupid observation, then?"

After a moment of quiet contemplation, Angel said, "Yes. I know who I'm fighting now."

Spike rolled his eyes. "How deep. You got any other pearls of wisdom?"

"No," Angel muttered, thinking hard. He had Hamilton figured out, unless the criminal had some deep, dark secret that fueled him. Hamilton was the easy one, the enemy. So it was time for Angel to turn his attention to different people. "But I do have a question."

"Fire away."

"What's up with Wesley?"

Someone who wasn't familiar with Spike would have thought the blonde was completely indifferent to the question. But Angel had been around the smaller man for years and years, making Spike an open book for the detective to interpret. Slight tightening of lips, hands clenching on the wheel ever so slightly, a tiny break in the rhythm of his tapping foot, these were all signs that Spike had been rattled, just a little. "As far as I can tell, he has no life outside his books," the Englishman said, cracking jokes to try and change the topic. Angel wasn't so easily distracted.

"I'm not blind, or stupid. For the past four days, Wesley's practically been my shadow. I wake up, he's lurking in the bathroom. I go downstairs, he's there at his little desk and I can feel him watching me. If I'm watching TV, he'll hang around the doorway and make excuses to stay there. It's becoming annoying, Spike, and if he doesn't stop it, I'll have to talk to him myself," Angel shrugged calmly. "And you know I don't have the best bedside manner."

Tightening his jaw, the blonde muttered, "S'not polite to gossip."

"Like you care about polite."

Spike smacked the steering wheel angrily. "Bloody hell, I told the little blighter to leave it alone! Almost begged him to just use his head and do his job, but no, he wouldn't listen to me!"

Angel smiled a little. "Spike, if everyone listened to you, then Britain would be a global empire and The Sex Pistols would be played at every wedding."

"Yeah, speakin' of which, if you every get remarried, would you-"

"No."

"C'mon, weddings are boring, they need _some_ good music!"

"Focus, Spike. Wesley. Why is he following me around?"

It was always a mystery to Angel how Spike could do anything but drive and still stay on the road. For example, the blonde had closed his eyes as he contemplated what to tell his partner. But the car didn't even swerve, which both amazed and appalled Angel. Finally, sighing to show how put out he was by Angel's question, Spike began to talk.

"Mind you, he hasn't told me anything for sure, but I know his background and have my suspicions. I figure the git wants out."

"Out of Wolfram and Hart or out of the entire criminal business?"

"Out as in he'd be perfectly content to sit in a library for the rest of his days and never even see a gun again, let alone fire it. But he's in to deep to just hang up his hat and call it a day."

"Why?" Angel thought for a moment. "What does Angelus have on him?"

"About a decade ago, Wussley was a big name in the Watcher's Council. Now, you remember how big a pain in the arse the Council was back in the day?"

Angel did indeed. There had been a point where the people who performed shady dealings cursed the Watcher's Council with the same vehemence that they felt towards the FBI or DEA. The detective himself could remember a few close calls with Council operatives, and none of them had been fun. One of those encounters had ended with the other man being dead, which had necessitated Angel's leaving the country for a while until the fuss died down. "But I thought the Watcher's Council got taken apart once the government found out that they were corrupt."

"Oh, they did. But c'mon, Peaches, think hard. Who was running the Council right before it got shut down?"

The name emerged from Angel's memory bank and carried with it a flash of understanding. "Roger Wyndham-Pryce. Was he Wesley's…"

"Father. Father-son crime fighting duo. Very impressive, right? Except for the part where good ol' Roger was raking in the cash by ignoring some less than legal dealings."

"Wesley found out." It wasn't a question. There was something in the dark-haired British man's eyes that spoke quietly of pain and betrayal.

"Right. And little Wesley was not all right with the state of things. So he blew the whistle on his dear old dad, and ended up exposing that the Council was rotten through and through."

"I bet that didn't sit well with the crooks who had been coasting along with the help of the Council."

"Too right. Plus, his family wasn't all that pleased about him getting his dad tossed in jail. So Wes ended up alone, with an arseload of mercenaries gunnin' for him."

"Why didn't go to the Witness Protection Program?"

Spike chuckled. "He had understandably lost faith in The Man by that point. And the ponce did all right for a couple of years. But he couldn't run forever, and eventually he was pretty much buggered. No more cash, hitmen closing in, nowhere left to go."

"Enter Angelus." Angel knew the rest of this story. He'd seen it played out again and again among dozens of desperate, scared people. "He offers Wesley protection and a steady source of money if only he'll work for Wolfram and Hart."

"Exactly. Far as I can tell, this took place right after he became CEO. Percy knew something about every criminal organization in North America and had tips one some of the major players through the world." Spike shrugged. "He was exactly what His Ponciness needed."

"But that doesn't explain why he's playing at being my stalker," Angel said, glancing at the roads. They were get close to the edge of town, and traffic was starting to pick up.

"Like I said, he wants out. Wussley isn't stupid, Peaches. He knows if he's gonna leave Wolfram and Hart, he's gotta go straight for Angelus. Thinks if he can understand the boss man, he'll be able to outsmart him."

"And he thinks I can help him understand my brother," Angel finished, shaking his head. "He is aware that there have never been two siblings more different than Angelus and I, right?"

" 'Parently not." Spike glanced at Angel suspiciously. "You aren't gonna tell him I told you this, are ya?"

The brunette rolled his eyes. He'd have thought his partner would understand by now. They were in this together, and backstabbing wouldn't help anyone. "Of course I'm not."

Spike was still staring at him suspiciously. "Swear it."

"What?" What fresh stupidity was this.

"Look, Peaches, no offense, but you've been out of the game for a while and that rattles my trust in you just a little. For all I know, you could be on some suicide mission." As Angel opened his mouth to protest, the blonde cut him off. "An' don't try and deny it either. Back in the day, you'd have mood swings worse than a bird. Hell, you still do. And there were times when I'd wonder if maybe you weren't ready to just step off the edge of a building or 'accidentally' set a bomb off before we were out the building. So I want you to swear you won't tell Percy what I told you, 'cause he has the makings to be a crazy bastard an' I don't wanna be first on his list."

Angel scowled at Spike, pissed off and not a little hurt. He'd thought they trusted each other. "I swear it Spike," he sneered, "on my mother's grave." _That'll shut the asshole up_.

Spike looked as if he'd been slapped for a moment, and then stared straight ahead at the road, refusing to look at Angel. For his part, the brunette was fuming silently. It was only when they reached the parking lot of the Cold Front, Lorne's new place of employment, that the smaller man finally spoke.

"'M sorry. I did hear about your mum. I wanted to come to the funeral, but I didn't think your father would want me around."

Angel had to laugh at that. No, Nathan O'Brien had definitely not liked Spike when they had first met. Equilibrium returned, Angel felt peaceful enough to murmur, "How are you doing, by the way? I mean, I know I'm a couple of years too late, but when you got back from your mom's funeral, you didn't want to talk about it at all."

The blonde man bowed his head for a moment. "Yeah. I'm all right. My old man had the nerve to come to her funeral though. Wanted to knock his teeth out."

"Did you?"

"No. She wouldn't have wanted it that way."

The moment that Spike had received word of his mother's death was still vivid in Angel's mind. It had been about a year before Connor's birth, and they had been in the middle of a job. Spike had picked up his cell phone, and by the time he hung up, the blonde had looked like little kid who had been told the Santa Claus was dead and that Jesus hated him. Never before and never again would Angel see Spike look so devastated, so crushed. So lost. The brunette hadn't hesitated to tell Spike to forget about the mission and go back to England.

Feeling comfortable with each other again, if a little sad, Spike and Angel glanced at the Cold Front. "This would be a lousy place to party," Spike muttered. The Clod Front was a squat brick building that looked like it was made to huddle against the cold Michigan winters. The sign in front of it that spelled out the name was rusty, and the door blocked any light from spilling out into the night and making the place seem more inviting.

"Okay, Lorne really does have a reason to hate this place," Angel observed.

"Yeah, but let's hope he's hasn't spooked the workers so much that they aren't talking to him," Spike responded. "Get you kit on, we're going in."

The partners were aware that they would not exactly fit in amongst a crowd of Great Lakes region dockworkers and drug dealers, so they had planned ahead. Spike had traded his beloved duster for a heavy jean jacket and blue jeans. After pulling a Yankees baseball cap over his radioactive hair, Spike would probably blend in well enough. Angel, on the other hand, was at a significant disadvantage due to the fact that his brother was well-known. They couldn't take the risk that someone would see Angel and think that Angelus was in town. Word would get back to Hamilton and then all hell would break lose. So the detective had reached into his bag of tricks and come up with a disguise.

A wig with short blonde hair covered his own, with a Notre Dame cap covering the wig. He'd put in colored green contacts, and hadn't shaved since he'd arrived in Redgrass, giving him a five o'clock shadow that would hopefully make him look less like himself. Like Spike, Angel had also dressed in clothes that would hopefully arouse no suspicion as to their identity.

"Okay," Angel said, after giving both himself and Spike a once over. "Let's go talk to Lorne."

_June 18, 2005_

_10: 18 AM_

_1212 Whedon Street_

**Wesley POV **

It had been a productive night. Lorne had managed to point out various people in the Cold Front who bore watching to Spike and Angel, Fred had learned a new weapons deal that Hamilton's people were considering making, and Gunn had found another hole in security at the docks. Productive nights made Wesley very tired, however, and he'd fallen into bed as soon as the sun rose, along with everyone else in the warehouse.

That was why it was so curious that Wesley would wake up at a little after ten o'clock. Normally he didn't rouse himself until at least two. Sitting up on his elbows, the Englishman glanced around the room. It was completely quiet in the warehouse, as it always was in the middle of the day. Wesley could find nothing amiss until he happened to glance at the foot of his bed, which made him give a small yelp of alarm. Someone was sitting there.

Wesley lunged for his lamp, which sat on the desk next to his bed. As he grabbed the lamp with one hand, he snatched the .45 caliber that rested in the drawer. The light clicked on and the gun came up, and it was to Wesley's great surprise that he found Angel sitting at the foot of his bed, looking perfectly calm.

"Hello Wesley," the tall man greeted, as if there was nothing strange at all about what was happening.

"What are you doing here?" Wesley asked, pushing himself into a sitting position while never taking the gun off of Angel.

"Now that was a little rude," commented Angel, staring at his nails as if bored. "I thought that the English were supposed to be the epitome of polite."

"Not when we find strange people in our rooms. I repeat, what are you doing here?" Wesley cocked the gun. He really, really did not want to shoot Angel. The younger twin seemed like a decent person. Plus, he was very possibly Wesley's ticket out of service to Wolfram and Hart. But there was a possibility that Angel was crazy, or working for Hamilton, or something else entirely, and Wesley did not want to be the one who found out about it the hard way.

Angel stretched, and in a motion so fast that Wesley barely saw it, grabbed a gun from his own waistband. The two brunettes were now facing each other over the barrels of their weapons. "Wes, I'd rather this not end in violence. I really did just come up here to talk."

"You came to talk with weapons?" Wesley asked skeptically.

"Well, you seemed a little trigger-happy," Angel admitted. "I figured it was best to be prepared."

"Sadly, you were prepared for nothing, because I'm certainly not going to talk to you right now." Wesley waved the gun a little for emphasis. "You should leave, and come back later. I need my beauty sleep."

Angel smiled slightly. "Trust me, this won't take long." He looked at his gun for a moment. "I'll put mine down if you'll put yours down."

"I'd rather keep mine up, if it's all the same to you."

"Fine." The detective lowered his gun all the same. "You've been following me."

This was not what Wesley had expected to hear and he had a brief moment of panic. But he quickly regained his composure, not wanting to show any weakness in front of Angelus' brother. "I don't know what you're talking about, I spend all of my time in the warehouse."

The big man smiled again, and it struck Wesley that the smile was certainly not genuine. It was another version of Angelus' smile. "I'm a better stalker than you, Wes, we should get that clear right away. I know when you're there. Also, I'm more than a little annoyed that you've been going in my room."

"How could you know that?" Wesley was startled. He'd gone into Angel's room when he had been all alone in the warehouse and was sure he had put everything back where it belonged.

"It didn't, but you just told me."

Dammit. He should have seen that one coming. "So what. It's my business to know things." It occurred to Wesley that he must look ridiculous. Hair ruffled by sleep, bare-chested, holding a gun.

"But this isn't about business, Wes. You and I both know that. So I'm going to say this once, and then hopefully we won't ever have to talk about it again." Angel leaned close. "You cannot get to my brother through me. I am just another employee to him. I have no idea how we ended up being so different, but we are. So you can stop taking notes, because you aren't going to find anything out. And if you still persist in following me, I'll scream this at you in front of everyone in the warehouse."

"But you got out," Wesley protested quietly. "So you must know a way."

Angel laughed. It sounded hollow. "I didn't get out. I walked away, not caring whether I lived or died. And it just so happened that I lived." The detective stood up and walked for the door. "If you want to leave Wolfram and Hart, it's as easy as not caring. But try not to let this suicide revelation hit you until we're done with the mission." He smiled again, Angelus' smile, and walked out the door, leaving Wesley feeling as if he'd just lost a very important battle that he hadn't even realized he was fighting.


	11. Chapter 11

**Part:** 11 

**Disclaimer**: Even AU, I don't own them

**Feedback:** It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

**Summary**: AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.

**Author's Note**: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. _Italics_ indicate thought.

**AN 2**: Okay, the reason for such late posting is that my computer suffered violent, painful, COMPLETELY UNPROVOKED death, and the repair time has taken a while. Grr…Thus, the lateness is not Entirely My Fault nervous chuckle The next part will be posted in a more timely manner. Again, I offer my apologies.

**Angelus POV**

_1:25 AM_

_June 21, 2005_

_Penthouse Apartment, Los Angeles Branch of Wolfram and Hart_

Angelus hated sleeping alone. For one thing, the bed was colder. For another, bedmates were distracting. If he was lying next to his one-night stand, the older twin didn't need to think about anything. He could drift blissfully in between orgasms and ignore any darkness in his own mind.

Alone, it was different. It was harder not to ponder the mysteries of life while staring at his ceiling, the lights of the city playing across it. Some nights, Angelus' thoughts were of family. His father, sometimes, but not often. The lingering childhood bitterness tended to make such thoughts dark and pointless. _Can parents _ever_ go through their lives without doing damage to their kids?_ It wasn't a question Angelus could answer and, frankly, he didn't really want to try. It wouldn't do anybody any good, least of all himself, and Angelus was always looking out for number one.

Nor did he think of Kathy very much. She had made her feelings for him painfully clear the last time they had met.

_-"You do terrible things," she told Angelus. They were in the hallway of their home, where their bedrooms had once been. Kathy's was still mostly intact, being as how she visited often from college. She was going to school to be journalist, and Angelus had often entertained the notion that she would probably make her debut investigating him._

_"Do you really believe that Angel has never done any terrible things either?" he asked. Kathy resembled both of her brothers strongly; apparently, their gene pool was not a terribly creative one. She had all of Angel's goodness and all of Angelus' stubbornness, and that made her a force to be reckoned with._

_"But you make him do it," Kathy hissed, her eyes narrowing. "Don't think I don't know what you do. Mom might not have and Dad might not care, but I do." She shoved past him and made to go down the stairs, back to their family, who were happily celebrating Thanksgiving. But as she placed her hand on the banister, she squinted and turned back to her oldest brother._

_"You're a monster," Kathy told him, pretty brown eyes blazing with the righteousness of someone who had yet to be beaten down and dirtied by the world._

_Kathy was what neither of her brothers could be any longer. She was an innocent. So Angelus checked the urge to snap some awful, shattering comeback. Instead, he simply raised an eyebrow and smirked. With an angry huff, his sister stomped down the stairs.-_

What else was there to say? It was futile to think of Kathy because it didn't matter what Angelus might consider or hope. Kathy would always believe he was a monster. She was probably right, but it still stung.

No, Angelus mostly thought of his mother. He missed her. He had never gotten to say goodbye. It was stupid and common and painful. The CEO was supposed to have no weakening emotions, no weaknesses at all. But oh, how Angelus wished he could simply call up his mom and talk about soap operas or the weather in Connecticut or any of the other things that mothers and sons found to talk about. But she was gone and no amount of money or influence could bring her back. Lying in bed, Angelus could not deny these facts. And they hurt him deeply, in a way that he refused to acknowledge.

Other lonely nights were filled with vague, guilty thoughts that could never be given form to. Those thoughts didn't keep him awake, for the most part, but they were annoying. Sometimes he thought about Angel, and the things that happened between them. But he appeased any guilty thoughts that might spring up by remembering Connor and how he had taken care of his nephew, to the best of his abilities. Some nights were filled with Darla. Others were filled with Lilah. A few, just a few, were filled with Winifred Burkle.

This was why Angelus didn't look at his own pain, most of the time. He had the quiet, solitary nights like tonight, where he could stare up at the ceiling and brood. Those were the only moments of weakness he could allow himself.

"Need to get laid," Angelus muttered as he rolled over and stared out his window. "Never brood when I get laid."

**Gunn POV**

_6: 54 AM_

_June 21, 2005_

_Boat Docks, Redgrass, Michigan_

Although Gunn had never had a particular talent in math, one equation was making itself known quite loudly in his mind. Cold nights plus hard labor equaled some serious lower back pain. Because of this unfortunate equation, Gunn was currently doubled over an empty packing crate, trying and failing to straighten out his back muscles.

"Yo, Charlie, you okay?" asked Rondell. Rondell was one of Gunn's boys, a natural spy and a damn good fighter too. It was probably bad for morale to see the boss hunched over and moaning like an old man, but Gunn was unable to care.

"Yeah, I'm cool," he muttered, even though he was a couple counties over from cool.

"You don't look cool; you look like you're losing a fight with gravity." Rondell was leaning against the crate, irritatingly upright and pain-free.

Gunn hissed and tried to straighten up. Most of the muscles in his back screamed in bloody protest and he would have fallen over if Rondell hadn't grabbed him. Chuckling, the spy helped prop his boss up until Gunn could stand on his own. "What's a matter, Charlie? You gettin old?"

"No, I'm getting worn down," Gunn responded, limping along painfully. Fortunately, there weren't many people around to watch Rondell practically carry him along, so he wasn't too humiliated. "Man, my other jobs, I either sat at a desk or I fought someone. There was no lifting involved. Why do people gotta go liftin' and movin' things anyway? Can't they just stick 'em where they belong the first time?"

"You should get yourself promoted," Rondell suggested. "Sit at a nice, comfy desk, sign papers, wear a suit. We could all laugh at ya then and call you 'Mr. Gunn'."

"Y'all oughta be calling me Mr. Gunn now," the bald man growled. Oh thank God, the almost permanent cramp in his back was starting to loosen a little. Walking was less painful and Rondell wasn't supporting all of his weight now. "You just have no respect. 'Sides, I wouldn't want to hang out with those donut-eating slobs we have as bosses. They'd cramp my style."

"Whatever you say, Charlie," Rondell grinned. By the time that the pair reached the main thoroughfare out of the dockyards, Gunn was standing normally again and walking with only the occasional wince. He'd have killed for a chiropractor though. Recurring back pain could not be healthy. Surely that was written in some medical magazine somewhere?

The employees at the docks had put in a hard night's work, and now they were ready to go home. There was the palpable sense of weariness combined with relief that hung in the air as the massive stream of workers moved through the main gates out of the docks. As Gunn and Rondell drew nearer to the gate, the workers became closer and closer together, causing people to brush against each other. Once such brush resulted in something slipping into Gunn's coat pocket, the slight weight barely noticeable. A few more brushes, a few more slight weights, and Gunn was feeling very pleased. His boys and girls had been busy indeed, and that would keep the Spiky-Headed Angelus Clone (his least offensive name for the annoying white guy who was trying to order him around) off his back.

Gunn finally got to his truck, careful not to let any of the papers fall out of his pockets. The vehicle rumbled to life. Gunn didn't need some big, ugly, gas sucking SUV to make himself feel important. Besides, his truck kicked ass.

The radio was Gunn's only form of entertainment as he sat in the usual traffic jam that occurred when work at the docks ended for the night. He had long outgrown the itch to take out the papers from his pockets and scan them. It was too risky; the possibility that someone could see him looking over dozens of little papers and wondering 'What's he up to?' was too great. So Gunn tuned into the country station, the only one his truck could pick up, and tried not to grimace. Any music was better than no music at all. It helped keep him from thinking too much about the things that would put him in a bad mood for the rest of the day. Things like New York and the penthouse apartment he'd had once upon a time. Things like the gang he'd used to run with. Things like his sister. Music was distracting. Music was good. Even if it was that hillbilly twanging crap that went by the name of country.

When Gunn finally got onto the streets, he faced a dilemma. _Where to go, where to go_, the bald man wondered. He could either return to the warehouse, which was a painfully boring option, or he could go visit Anne's Diner. Yeah, he was going with that one.

Anne's Diner, while not the most creatively named restaurant, was the best in town. The fact that it was the only one in town did not matter. If there had been others, Anne's still would have been the best.

Anne Cambridge had come to Redgrass two years before Hamilton's big land grab, and in that time she had managed to make quite an impression on the townspeople. There were only two options with Anne: love her or hate her. And for the most part, people loved her. It was mostly the grouchy old folks who had a beef with her. She could have avoided that entirely if she hadn't been as open about her past. Anne had run away from home. She'd done drugs, been homeless, and been a part of not one, but two different cults.

To some people, this was appalling, disgusting, and an example of a person who should be exiled from society in general. To others, Anne was a brilliant success story. She was clean, hadn't been in touch with either cult since she'd left, and had managed to make an honest living for herself. Anne had even given a speech at the high school about the importance of getting an education and staying drug free.

From Gunn's perspective, this made Anne nearly a saint. Anne was one of the good ones, the lucky ones, the ones who cared. Plus, she was stubborn as hell. Through some legal maneuvering that Gunn admired greatly, Anne had managed to keep possession of the diner when Hamilton had bought nearly every other building in Redgrass. Currently, this made her a member of the twenty-person minority in Redgrass who weren't employed by Hamilton in some way.

Finding a parking space in the diner was hard to do, since it seemed like half the town turned up once their shifts were over to eat at Anne's. But Gunn was unconcerned with the total lack of open spaces, and parked on the street. It wasn't like Redgrass had a police force. Well, perhaps it technically did, but they were enforcers more than they were actual cops.

With a frown, Gunn noticed that one of the walls on the building had graffiti sprayed across it, and there were empty spaces where some of the bushes should have been. In addition, the door leading into the restaurant had two panes smashed out, and the empty spaces were covered with cardboard. Dammit. The cops _had_ been here, it seemed.

When Gunn opened the door to the diner, he was hit with a blast of noise. It was, as usual for this time in the morning, packed. He scanned the crowds for any signs of Anne's blonde head, but could barely see a few feet in front due to the number of people crammed in the restaurant. The spymaster was beginning to have vague thoughts about building capacity when he heard a light, female voice call his name.

Anne was behind the cash register, looking harried. "Hey Anne," Gunn greeted as he came to stand next to her.

She smiled at him before she became distracted and needed to direct several workers to a table. Seeing three large, two-hundred pound men taking seating orders from a girl who looked like she weighed maybe a hundred pounds was an entertaining sight if Gunn had ever seen one.

After the workers had found seats, Anne returned her attention to Gunn. "Good to see you," she said cheerfully. Anne was pretty and looked every inch of the twenty-something that she was, but there was also an old look in her eyes, like she'd seen too much. And really, Gunn reflected, they all had. _Everyone in this town has seen more than any person ever should._

"Yeah, sorry I couldn't come in the other day," Gunn apologized, leaning against the table that the register was on. He had to speak pretty loudly to be heard over the noise in the restaurant. "I felt like if I did, I'd fall asleep facedown in my eggs."

"Couldn't have that. People would think there was something wrong with the eggs." The blonde woman grinned, but her laughter quickly turned to a groan when she saw three more cars begin circling her lot, trying to find a place to park. "I really don't think we have anymore space. People are going to need to eat standing up."

Gunn went up on tiptoe, trying to spy an empty booth. But it seemed like Anne's was filled up for the morning, and he returned to a normal standing position, shaking his head. "Sorry, but I don't think you can squeeze in any new customers."

"Considering my diner's filled to capacity, I'm all right with that," Anne responded, rubbing her temples. Anne got migraines on an almost daily basis and they often incapacitated her. Gunn sensed that this was about to be one of those times.

"Hey, Miguel," Gunn called to one of the waiters, "take over the register. I'm taking Anne to the back."

"Sure," Miguel said cheerfully. Working the register was generally easier then taking orders, because at the register the customers didn't demand anything but seats and change.

The back of Anne's Diner was composed of the bustling kitchen, the bathrooms (which were in relatively good shape considering the people who used them), the storage room, and Anne's office. That was the one Gunn was headed towards, towing Anne along behind him.

"Really, I'm fine, just a little sick," Anne protested as Gunn pulled her along.

"If you were missing your entire lower body, you'd say you were fine, just a little sick," Gunn responded amiably. "If you were being pecked to death by chickens, you'd say you were fine, just a little sick. You're a masochist, girl, you _love_ the pain."

Making Anne smile really did help to brighten Gunn's day. The only girl sweeter than her was Fred, and Gunn had long since decided that Fred had some sort of weird, super happy DNA.

Anne's office may have once been a fairly large closet. It was only possible to open the door about halfway before running into the desk, which had papers stacked at least a foot high. There was also a small cot shoved into the back corner, on which Anne and other employees of the diner often slept.

After making sure Anne was lying down on the cot, ("but I'm fine!"), Gunn began rummaging through her desk for the prescription strength headache medication she kept there. It was hard going, considering Anne never seemed to throw anything away. Gunn finally found the bottle in between a broken stapler and a crumpled, three-year-old McDonalds receipt.

"You're going to have to take them dry," he told her. She smiled at him from where she sat on the bed.

"You take good care of me, Charles." That gave Gunn a very warm, not particularly manly, fuzzy feeling in his chest. That grateful, affectionate look reminded him of the one that his sister had used to give him. Back before things between them had fallen apart so spectacularly.

"Ah Anne, you'd be fine on your own, you're just taking advantage of me," Gunn grinned, feeling it stretch the muscles in his face.

Anne laughed and rolled her eyes before swallowing the pills with a grimace. It was hard for Gunn, sometimes, to not equate Anne with Alonna, but he knew that wasn't fair. It wasn't right to try and use Anne to exorcise his demons and work out his sister problems.

But still, Gunn felt a sense of family as he sat in the back room of Anne's Diner, in a town filled with criminals, knowing full well that he was only there to destroy Redgrass and move on. That after he was done here, he could never risk seeing Anne again. So really, it was better to take advantage of things now.

**Lorne POV**

_6:45 PM_

_June 21, 2005_

_1212 Whedon Street_

Lorne wanted a seabreeze. That in itself was not a truly unremarkable thing. Everybody wanted something. OJ Simpson wanted the world to forget about DNA evidence. Angelina Jolie wanted to adopt the entire pre-pubescent population of Africa. Orlando Bloom wanted Johnny Depp to stop stealing his scenes in those pirate movies. People wanted things, that's the way it was.

He was almost regretting drinking all the Wal-Mart wine the first night he came. Almost, but not quite, because that stuff had truly been cheap. If it had cost over four dollars, Lorne would have been greatly surprised.

The warehouse was starting to wake up. Wesley had already wandered down the stairs, looking as prim as ever. Lorne winced at the thought of how uptight that man had to be. The brunette was quietly glancing through some papers, occasionally scribbling on them with the pencil he kept close at hand. There was nothing on the TV, meaning Lorne could either talk to Wesley or go back up to his depressing little room.

"So, what is it that you do, exactly?" the club owner asked as he flopped down in a chair next in front of Wesley's desk. Considering that everyone else in the Wolfram and Hart A-Team seemed to be dressing as inconspicuously as possible, Lorne sometimes felt out of place in his flamboyant suits. He had tried to pack his least colorful clothing, aware of the fact that people in Michigan would probably not enjoy the bright colors as much as the Angelinos did. But Lorne was still a peacock among sparrows.

The path of Wesley's eyes was easy to follow, and Lorne amused himself by watching their journey. First they were drawn to the purple suit and red shirt that he was wearing. They came up to Lorne's admittedly prominent chin, stared for a moment, and then moved on to his even more prominent nose. Finally, Wesley's baby blues came to Lorne's orange-yellow hair, before dropping down to look the club owner in the eyes.

"I, erm, file things mostly. Make phonecalls. Organize the information." Wesley gestured to the maps. "For example, Angel has been asking me to find buildings that aren't likely to have much security. Fred and Gunn are both undercover, and they have their own people who are also undercover and help to gather information." Wesley gestured to a pile of notes.

"And I just bring you gossip," Lorne added.

"Yes. Um, wait, no, that's not, uh, what I meant." Wesley, bless his little heart, was getting flustered.

"Relax, English Patient" the club owner said with a smile, "I'm only kidding." Wesley looked confused at first, but smiled back.

About half an hour passed, Wesley reading his papers and Lorne playing 'Six Degrees of Separation from Kevin Bacon' with various celebrities. He had nearly figured out George W. Bush when Angel came down the stairs, as immaculately gelled as ever.

"Well, look who's finally dragged himself out of bed," Lorne muttered, giving Angel the evil eye. The big lug was spending far too much time actually working, and Lorne felt distinctly uncomfortable with most of his other "teammates." The only one who didn't give off the impression that they were only a few traffic tickets away from Uzi-ing everyone in their path was that adorable Fred girl.

"I was working all night, Lorne, I have the right to sleep in," Angel responded, wandering towards the large cardboard box that stood atop the refrigerator. That box was where the residents of 1212 Whedon Street kept their grain products. Apparently, Angel had opted for a healthy breakfast of Ritz crackers.

"Excuse me? You were sitting in a car and walking through alleys spying on a guy in a suit from afar." Lorne snatched some of the crackers out of Angel's hand. "I, on the other hand, was inhaling cigarette smoke and beer fumes the entire night while schmoozing with criminals. Have you ever tried to get a drug dealer to tell you his deepest, darkest secrets, pudding pop?"

"Yeah," mused Angel, munching on a cracker, "but I'm pretty sure my way was more violent than yours."

"Doubtless."

The sudden burst of knocking startled Lorne so badly that he dropped the remaining Ritz onto the floor, which made him grimace. He was starving, and no longer able to survive on seabreezes, bar peanuts, and karaoke alone. Such was Lorne's hunger that he was actually considering snatching the cracker off the floor and eating it. Wasn't there a ten second rule or something?

As Angel fumbled to get the door open, Lorne instead went for a box of Triscuits. He needed something absorbent to settle his stomach after all the drinking he'd done last night.

"Anything interesting going on?" Gunn asked as he walked in the door. "And can we carve me out a secret passage or something? I'm getting tired of having to knock to get in here."

"If you get a secret passage, I'm using your shower," Angel muttered. "The other one is too crowded."

"You're just vain," Spike offered as he descended the stairs and sidestepped a box filled with papers. "Everyone else gets in and out of the bathroom just fine. You're the one who'd spend all eternity in there if we let him."

Angel shot Spike a sour look. Lorne wanted to laugh at the tension between them; it was more entertaining than TV.

Gunn settled into the easy chair next to Lorne and held his hand out for some Triscuits. Lorne considered explaining that he was on the verge of eating the cardboard box, but decided against it. He needed to bond with these people, and his instincts said that Gunn was a good person, despite his sometimes hostile 'tude.

"If we got Fred down here, we could have the meeting over and done with in a coupla minutes," Gunn observed around a mouthful of salted crackery goodness. Out of the corner of his eye, Lorne noticed Spike battling Angel for the Ritz crackers.

"I'll go get her," Wesley said quickly, sitting up so straight that Lorne was surprised his back didn't go out. The Englishman was up the stairs in record time, leaving the rest of the group staring after him, somewhat amused.

"I think Percy might fancy our girl," Spike chuckled.

"Could be," Gunn agreed.

Angel noticed his blonde partner's mischievous expression. "Leave him alone Spike."

"Oi!" the blonde man protested indignantly. "I haven't done anything to the git besides make fun of him a little. I do that to everyone. _You're _the crazy bastard who was threatening him at gunpoint."

Lorne felt the temperature drop a noticeable amount, especially around Gunn's corner of the room. The bald man was glaring through narrowed eyes at Angel, his expression of anger not concealed at all. Apparently Gunn had not known this little tidbit of gossip.

"I didn't threaten him," Angel replied calmly, pretending not to feel the Death Glare that Gunn was sending him. "I offered him some advice. He pulled out the gun first."

"Oh, 'he started it'. Real mature," Spike snorted. Gunn looked ready to throw down with Angel and Lorne was already wincing. He was a pacifist by nature. A lover, not a fighter. The possibility of having to be involved heavy-duty, _Matrix_-style violence was one of the reasons the club owner had been extremely reluctant to join Team Angelus. Well, that and the whole kamikaze-come-home-victorious-or-don't-bother-coming-home-at-all feel that the operation had.

Fortunately, any unpleasantness was prevented by the appearance of Fred. It seemed none of the males were willing to give in to their macho instincts when the skinny Texas ray of sunshine was around, and for that Lorne loved her even more. "Hey guys," she greeted, unaware of what she'd just interrupted. "I hope y'all weren't waitin' on me?"

"Nope," Gunn said quickly.

"We were just-" Angel began.

"-Talking," Spike finished, and the two gave each other self-satisfied nods.

"All right." Fred smiled a little wider, and Lorne wondered what in all the levels of Hell was this sweet girl was doing working for Angelus. He had a sneaking suspicion that the answer was not something that should see the light of day. The club owner tried to put that out of his mind as Fred took a seat in the lawn chair next to him.

"Ah, I believe we were starting the meeting," Wesley intoned, sitting at his big desk. Despite seeming very content surrounded by books, the Englishman was looking more and more worn out. It made Lorne nervous. The entire operation made him nervous. "Gunn, I've recorded most of your notes, but would you mind telling everyone else?" Damned if Wesley didn't resemble a teacher trying to prod his students into speaking.

"Sure." Gunn rubbed his neck. "The eastern part of the docks is the most vulnerable. Fewest guards, and only one dog. I'm having my people try and break the lock on the fence around the place, but it'll take them awhile. The shoreline where the ships and cargo come in is too well guarded to stage any sort of attack. The southern edge where the workers come in is littered with cameras, which we could get around. It'd be tricky though. As for the western edge, well, we'd need a whole helluva lot of Milkbones to get through." At the uncomprehending looks of the others, Gunn elaborated, "Dogs. A bunch of 'em, and their handlers all have guns. The western edge is where they store the cargo, and it's like a fortress. We don't have any spies in there."

Angel sighed. "That's okay, we'll work around that. Somehow."

Gunn snorted and rolled his eyes. "Good luck with that one."

The detective was making a valiant effort not to look annoyed as he asked, "What about the workers in general. I don't mean our spies. The actual criminals."

"What about them?"

"How do they feel about the management?"

Looking perplexed, Gunn answered, "Uh, they aren't exactly doing jumping for joy over Hamilton, but I don't think they hate him or any of his flunkies. At least not in my neck of the woods."

"Some people complain," Lorne chimed in, happy to have something to contribute. He might not like his forced assignment, but he hated feeling useless. "No one seems like they're about to snap, but there are plenty of people who don't like their bosses, or their paychecks, or the people they have to work with. It's a business; someone's always going to be unhappy."

That particular bit of news made Angel perk up a bit, which was not exactly comforting to Lorne. He was not used to seeing Angel the Criminal. It worried him a little. He'd seen people get pulled into the darkness and never get away. Angel had gotten out once. Lorne wasn't so sure the big guy could do it again.

"What about you, Fred?" Wesley asked, casting her puppy dog eyes that were probably unintentional.

"Um, not much to report. We're still getting steady shipments from Venezuela. Knox is trying to negotiate the weapons deal with the group from Rwanda, but there are difficulties. They might end up sending people here to try and negotiate." The most bizarre thing about Fred discussing weapons was how pleasant she looked. Like she was talking about a sunny day or her niece's birthday party. It was a little bit creepy, in Lorne's opinion. Maybe she did belong at Wolfram and Hart, and that was a scary thought if there ever was one.

"Be sure and tell us if they actually come," Angel instructed her. He had a cunning look in his eyes. The gears in his head were obviously hard at work. It reminded Lorne of Angelus, which was not good at all.

"What about you Lorne?" Wesley asked, pencil poised expectantly over a notebook.

Lorne swallowed. "Um, some of the, er, prostitutes don't speak English, and the bouncers at the brothels don't really appreciate it. I get the impression the girls and the employees get along well." The club owner strained his mind trying to remember anything else of importance. This wasn't fair! Everyone else had specific assignment, but his job was to listen and try to find something important in the dull myriad of things that are inevitably told to bartenders. Oh, hey…"I think Mayor Wilkins is having some sort of disagreement with Hamilton. Some of the security guards at Town Hall were taking bets on whether or not the two of them would start screaming at each other."

At that news, a slow smile (more of a smirk, really) spread across Angel's face. "A fight with Hamilton, huh? Wes, how long has Wilkins been the mayor?"

"Ah," Wesley went to a box at the side of his desk that had the words 'Richard Wilkins III/Mayor' written on it in small, precise letters. After rummaging through it for a moment, he pulled out a sheet of paper and answered, "He was mayor the year that Hamilton took over. Apparently he helped Hamilton make his land grab. Being as how Redgrass no longer has mayoral elections, it's safe to assume that Wilkins will remain mayor until Hamilton decides otherwise."

"So he's definitely an ally," Spike summarized.

"But allies don't always get along," Angel pointed out. He was tapping his fingers absentmindedly as he thought. "Wilkins had control over the entire town before Hamilton took over. It's possible he's resentful of that."

"Guns," Fred said suddenly, sitting up straight. A few strands of hair fell from the messy bun she had pinned at the nape of her neck.

"Beg pardon?" Wesley asked in confusion.

"I remember Knox telling me that Wilkins didn't like the weapons deals that came into Redgrass," Fred explained.

"Uh, excuse me for asking, but who's Knox?" Lorne asked. He had yet to memorize all of the major players in this Bizarro World Stepford town.

"My boss," she explained quickly. "Anyway, Mayor Wilkins doesn't approve of the arms deals that we make. He thinks it's bringing too many outsiders into Redgrass, and that it'll lead to the town being uncovered."

"Wesley, do we have anyone who is close enough to the mayor to know his personal habits?" Angel looked like he'd just found the last piece in a jigsaw puzzle he'd been working on for months.

"Yes. His personal assistant is on our payroll."

Angel smiled. "Spike and I are going to be staking out his house tomorrow."

"Any particular reason, O Poofy One?" Spike asked, raising his scarred eyebrow.

"I have a plan," was the smirking response.

Spike sighed. "Oh goody."

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 12

**Part**: 12

**Disclaimer:** Even AU they don't belong to me

**Feedback**: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

**Summary:**AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.

**Author's Note**: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. _Italics_ indicate thought.

**Spike POV**

_7:13 AM_

_June 22, 2005_

_1212 Whedon Street_

Tradition dictated that Spike be drunk when Angel went over the plan. They were both in Spike's room, which was even smaller than Angel's. Not that Spike cared; he spent most of his time downstairs, being social. Angel was the one who needed to lock himself in his room six hours a day to ponder the meaning of life and wallow in his misery.

"Are you paying attention?" Angel's annoyed voice broke through Spike's musings.

The blonde, who was just about at passing out point, rolled his head towards his partner and answered, "Not really."

Angry sigh. Furrowed brow. "Is there a reason you need to be plastered? Gimme that, you're about to throw up." Angel snatched the beer out of Spike's hand.

"Oi!" Spike tried to grab the beer back, but lacked the necessary hand-eye coordination to make the move effective. Instead, he slumped and would have fallen out of the bed had Angel not grabbed him and propped him up.

"Stop it. Just shut up and listen and then tell me if you think the plan will work." Satisfied that Spike wasn't going to lunge off the bed again, Angel sat back in his chair and chugged the remainder of Spike's beer.

"Ponce," Spike muttered. He hoped he wasn't slurring so much that his beer-stealing bastard of a partner couldn't understand him. "'Sides, you know I have to be drunk. 'S a good luck ritual." _He's obsessive-compulsive, he should know all about rituals_.

_-"It's called Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder." Angel lookedvery smallin that moment. He looked as if he was trying to shrink down into the cushions of the couch and disappear completely. "OCD for short, or just OC."_

_"I've heard of it." Spike wasn't sure what to think. He had never had to deal with something like this before. The closest he'd ever come to dealing with someone who had mental problems was when he'd talked his manic depressive cousin down from a water tower. Now he might have to deal with a certifiable-sack-of-hammers neat freak who would panic every time he got some dirt on him? Spike had a sinking feeling_.

_Something in Spike's face must have alerted Angel to his thoughts, because the brunette drew himself up and looked offended. "I'm not crazy or handicapped," he said, his voice hard. "I can do my job just fine. I might wash my hands a lot and have weird little rituals, but I'm not a freak."_

_"No offense mate, but 'm not sure you're gonna be able to hold your own in a fight if you're scared of gettin' a little blood on you." Spike wasn't trying to be cruel, but he refused to be given some dead weight partner that he had to babysit, no matter what Angelus said._

_Angel could have pointed out that he'd been in plenty of fights and come out smiling. He could have reminded Spike of how he'd been a mercenary for a longer time. What Angel actually did was deck the blonde Englishman hard, in the nose._

_"Argh! You cocksucking son of a whore!" Spike howled, holding his now throbbing nose. Blood was leaking out from between his fingertips._

_Smiling smugly, Angel crouched down to where Spike had fallen. He held out his right hand, and the Englishman could see his own blood smeared across it._

_"This," he gestured to the blood, "does not scare me at all." Using his left index finger, Angel dipped into the blood and drew a macabre little smiley face on Spike's white T-shirt._

_The entire display drove home two points to Spike. One, that Angel was obviously a bit loony, but not because of the OCD. And two, the crazy git would probably make a decent partner.-_

Bloody hell. Spike often reminisced when he was drunk and it was mostly uncontrollable. But being as the Brooding One was still yammering on about his plan, taking a trip down memory lane seemed like a good way of escaping. Still, it was best to at least partially listen to what Angel was saying or else the git would throw a hissy fit and probably get violent. He had that in common with his brother, damn them both.

_-"Are you listening to me?" Angelus asked, his voice holding that razor edge of irritation that promised pain._

_"No." Spike didn't know Angelus well enough to be afraid of him. It was only his second job for the up-and-coming lawyer, but Spike was no newbie to the mercenary trade. He'd killed people before, and that had robbed the Englishman of a certain sense of fear. He was a killer. There was nothing left to be afraid of._

_Angelus had been going on and on about how important it was that Spike take out the target sooner rather than later. Something having to do with looming court dates and witnesses for the prosecution. But now the man had gone eerily silent. It occurred to Spike for the first time just how_ big _Angelus O'Brien actually was underneath the well-polished shoes and expensive suit._

"_You think you're clever don't you?" the lawyer asked, smiling a thoroughly unpleasant smile. Angelus was fingering a large, heavy looking paperweight that was sitting on his desk. It was made of some dark sort of metal, and was formed in the shape of an eagle or a hawk. It reminded Spike of the bird in_ The Maltese Falcon.

"_More than you," Spike snapped, realizing he'd been too busy staring at the damn paperweight to respond. He hated the way this man was making him feel. It reminded him of when he'd been a tyke in primary school. He'd been small even then, and quiet, and the bullies had honed in on him like he had a target painted on his forehead. _But I'm grown up now,_ Spike reminded himself._ No one can take me.

_Angelus smiled even wider. Faster than Spike could see, the lawyer picked up the paperweight and heaved it at Spike. It hit him square in the ribs, he heard something crack, and a wave of agony rolled up and down Spike's body. He fell out of his chair, clutching his right side and wondering what in all the levels of hell was going on. Since when did_ lawyers _start brawls? _

_Before he could get himself together and kick the aforementioned lawyer's wide, spotty arse, he felt himself being picked up and thrown over the edge of the desk and pinned there. Angelus was practically laying on him, and the pressure on Spike's damaged ribs was torture._

"_Now, I don't know what you're trying to prove with your I-just escaped-from-a-mosh-pit look and your bad ass attitude, but I've dealt with enough self-important punks in my time to be less than impressed." Angelus was speaking very casually, all the while pressing down on Spike's ribs. _

"_Get the soddin' hell off of me!" Spike could have come up with something meaner or at least more insulting, but he was frankly too confused and indignant to be thinking quickly. And despite his struggles, Angelus outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. The Englishman was well and truly stuck._

"_No," accompanied with another quick hit against the ribs, which made Spike cry out. _

_Angelus was out of range for a headbutt, so Spike settled down to listen. If there was one thing he'd picked up on in his short time with the obviously batshit lawyer, it was that he liked to talk. A lot. That could give Spike a chance to wiggle out of this situation._

"_Now, Spike," extra sneer on the name, "normally I would just assume you were another trigger happy idiot and let you go cheerfully through your pathetic life until one day you got shot, or, stabbed, or OD'd or whatever. But I think you, my short friend, have potential."_

"_Fuck you," Spike responded, renewing his struggles again _

_"Perhaps later," Angelus responded cheerfully. _

_Spike paused for a moment, trying to decide if Angelus was bluffing. The whole meeting had gone to hell very quickly, rape or not. _Don't let him get to you. Git's just trying to scare you _God, he hoped it was true. "What do you care if I have 'potential'?" Spike asked, trying to sound as if he was completely unafraid. Loony Lawyer could probably smell fear._

_"I have plans, Spike, and I think you could be extremely helpful. I've pulled your file, read up on what you've done. Pretty amateur, but like I said, you show potential." Spike bristled, but said nothing. "You'd work for me, just for me, and it would earn you more money than you could possibly imagine." Angelus wasn't holding him as tightly as before. Spike could have started struggling again and maybe even gotten away. But he was suddenly intrigued, despite himself. _

_"Yeah? How's that?"_

_Crazy as it sounded, Spike could _feel_ Angelus smile smugly. He had the unpleasant feeling that he was a fish who'd just bitten into the hook. "I'm moving up the ranks in this company. The higher I get, the more I get. That means more for you. If you help me."_

_"Maybe I don't want to help you." But Spike did. More money than he could possibly imagine? That was damn tempting. Enough to keep his mum as comfortable as possible, enough to give him anything he wanted? How could he not want that?_

_"Oh, trust me, kiddo, you really do. You're playing for pocket change right now." Angelus suddenly released him and stepped back. Spike turned to face him warily. The lawyer didn't have a hair out of place, his suit was miraculously neat, and the expression on his face was predatory. Some memory floated up, about the devil being the most beautiful of all the angels. "I can move you to the big leagues."_

_Spike needed space, he needed air, he needed to get far away from this man before something terrible happened. "'M gonna need some time to think about this." It was not a request._

_"Fine." Angelus was all smiles. "In the meantime, you still have the current job to do for me. I trust you'll accomplish that quickly and report back to me at the arranged time?"_

_Spike nodded, already backing towards the door. When his hand reached the knob, he finally turned his back to the psychotic lawyer and was nearly out the door, he heard Angelus call out, "Oh, Spike?"_

_Warily, the Englishman turned to face Angelus again. The brunette had picked up his errant paperweight. He tossed it in the air and caught it in his hand, never breaking eye contact with Spike. "Don't be late."-_

Spike had said yes. Of course he'd said yes. Angelus had been as good as his word. If the Englishman had wanted to, he could have retired now and had enough money to support himself comfortably for the rest of his life. But he didn't want to retire and die some crusty old man. He wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, and until that day came, Spike would do what Angelus told him.

"My God, Spike, how much did you drink?" Angel asked from far away, beyond the land of drunken stupor that Spike had settled into.

"Don' know," he slurred. The bed was nice and comfy and Spike felt himself drifting to sleep.

"Hey! Don't fall asleep!" Angel sounded very offended. "Wake up!"

_-"Wake up! Dammit, wake up!" Angel was screaming it at him, pushing against his chest._

_Spike was in a strange place, not conscious but not completely gone either. He was so cold. His clothes, his body, everything was soaked with icy water. The Bay of Kola was not a good place to take a swim. _

_He couldn't breathe. But that was okay, he started to feel warmer, everything was okay-_

"_Breath, you stupid little shit, breathe!" Angel's mouth closed over his own, pushing air down his throat. Those ham-sized fists were pounding against his chest, trying to make him cough up the water that he'd inhaled when their boat had capsized, thanks to the Russian mafia._

_Spike didn't want to breathe, he wanted to sleep. Angel kept screaming at him, and hitting him, and it was making it hard to drift away. His lungs hurt, everything hurt, but Spike only noticed this from far away. As if he was anesthetized. Everything was wrapped in cotton and the blonde man was just fine with that._

_Another hard puff of air down his throat, smelling like Angel, and more hitting, and all Spike wanted was to go away, he was tired and he was leaving and it didn't matter that he couldn't feel anything, couldn't feel his heartbeat. He was warm. Wrapped in cotton._

"_WAKE UP!" Angel screamed, as he hit, his voice breaking at the end. Air rushed down Spike's throat again as Angel breathed for him. The fist slammed down, bruising Spike's sternum and making his heart shudder back to life at last._

_Spasms shook Spike's body as he vomited water all over Angel and the frozen beach they were sprawled upon. As Spike recovered from his near-death experience, sensation came rushing back to him so hard that it hurt. He was freezing, could barely feel his feet or hands, soaked to the bone, and his body felt like it had been pulverized. But he was alive._

_When he was finally able to breathe without gagging, he turned to Angel, who was staring at him with a bizarre mixture of hope and terror. "Thanks, mate," Spike managed to gasp._

"_Don't mention it," Angel responded, sagging with relief.-_

"Fine, pass out," Angel sighed. "When you wake up hungover, don't come crying to me for aspirin."

"Don' cry," Spike tried to say, but the world was spinning and he was starting to slip into dark, alcohol-soaked oblivion.

Angel rolled his eyes and got up, grumbling. Spike managed to catch something about how now Angel was going top have to go over the whole plan again, with Wesley listening, and God knew the Watcher would ask a ton of questions, and why couldn't Spike just listen like a normal human being? Honestly.

If he hadn't been half-asleep, Spike would have pointed out that he did listen, when things were important. Angel was the one who never got his head out of his arse to pay attention.

_-"She's pregnant," Angel said, looking like he'd just found the Holy Grail sitting atop the Golden Fleece. "I can't believe she's pregnant."_

_"You've said that about four times now, mate," Spike pointed out._

_"I just said it again."_

_Spike rolled his eyes. The big poof was practically floating. Who'd have thought one little baby could make such a difference to someone? It was bizarre. Then again, Angel was also bizarre, so maybe it made sense._

_"Right, well, congratulations, Peaches," Spike toasted his longneck in Angel's general direction and took a swig. After he swallowed, he added, "You get to be a daddy. Try not to screw up the kid too much."_

_Angel shot him a dirty look, but didn't seem offended otherwise. They were sitting at the bar in Caritas, one of Angel's frequent haunts. Spike also came here occasionally, but it was just because that odd Lorne bloke with the orange hair and the huge nose gave him free booze and only hit on him a little. Lorne had heard Angel's good news and offered drinks on the house tonight. That, plus the fact that some merciful force had decided to turnoffthe karaoke machine, made things at Caritas pretty damn nice._

_"Yeah. To you, Darla, and the baby." The man sitting on Angel's left also toasted and took a long drink. He finished his beer and smiled. "One big, happy family." Was it Spike's imagination, or was Lindsey's whiskey-roughened a little rougher tonight?_

_Lindsey and Spike did not get along on principle. The only reason they were both in the same room most of the time was because of Angel, and tonight was no exception. The two of them were similar creatures, both fueled by anger and the sense that some higher power had_ really _shafted them. They were, in fact, too similar to be around each other without bickering. _What's that saying? 'If you ever met someone exactly like you, you'd hate them on the spot'. _Well, Lindsey the Lawyer wasn't exactly like Spike, but it was a close enough match. Close enough that Spike knew something was wrong with Mr. Urban Cowboy._

_Spike had had his suspicions about Lindsey for a long time. He'd seen the guilt and the furtive stares and the pathetic obviousness of it all. It wasn't hard to connect the dots. Lindsey was in love with his best friend's wife._

_As in most love triangles, at least one part was totally oblivious. Angel had no idea why Lindsey went out of his way to avoid Darla, but Spike did and it almost made him respect the Texan. He was trying to remove the temptation. Still, love wasn't the sort of thing that conveniently went away. _

_Spike had vowed to keep his mouth shut and not mention Lindsey's little crush to Angel for one reason only. He could tell that Darla had not been unfaithful. That sad little look the lawyer wore sometimes spoke of love unrequited. But he had promised himself that the minute itseemed like Lindsey was getting some and Darla mysteriously disappeared for hours at a time, the whole bloody mess was going to be shoved out in the open. The Englishman figured that was the only decent thing he could do. Either way though, Angel was getting the short end of the stick._

_Tonight, though, Lindsey was making a game attempt at not looking like his heart was breaking. He was joking around with Angel and laughing and trying to act like the good ol' boy he was at heart. Wasn't doing too bad a job either. But Spike could still tell. Lindsey knew that tonight, any chance he might have had with Darla, however unlikely or unfair, had just gone down the toilet. Angel and Darla would have the perfect family that everyone would envy, while Lindsey could only watch and smile and try not to be bitter._

_Spike snorted. It was a shame, but the cowboy was just going to have to suck it up. Grin and bear it. What else could he do? When Angel leaned over to grab something from behind the bar, two pairs of blue eyes met over his back. Spike made sure his expression said something along the lines of 'Sorry mate, but you're out of luck.' Lindsey just glared.-_

But of course, none of the trio had known about Angelus, and wouldn't for quite some time. _Crazy story_, Spike thought to himself, hiccupping once. Angel had let himself out the door and the blonde man could hear him stomping through the halls with his yeti-sized feet. _Craziest bloody story I ever heard_. But it wasa true story,and Spike was still living in it. Try as he might, he just could not escape the pull of these people. With that uncomfortable thought, he drifted to sleep.

**Angel POV**

_10: 30 AM_

_June 23, 2005_

_382 Deschenel Avenue, Redgrass, Michigan_

"So…first one to find the money stashes get to keep them," Spike challenged as he, Angel, and Wesley stared up at Mayor Wilkins' house with something akin to glee.

"Deal. Personally, I'm going for the watches," Angel popped a piece of gum into his mouth and relished the minty taste. "I've seen the wrists of this guy, and it's like Rolex City." He had long since learned not to be bitter about Spike's lack of a hangover. His partner was the sort of person who either came off a bender with nothing wrong whatsoever, or so suffering from the worst hangover in the world. The latter happened enough to appease Angel's sense of fairness.

"You two seem very calm for people who are taking great personal risks simply to make statement," Wesley piped up from the backseat. Both Spike and Angel turned to give him offended glances.

"Wes, this is not a risk," Angel laughed. "This is cake."

"Might as well have put out the Welcome mat for us," Spike added, fiddling with his gloves for a moment. All three men were dressed in white T-shirts, blue jeans, and had bandanas and sunglasses to help obscure their features. In addition, each of them was wearing gardening gloves to deal with fingerprints or broken glass, and wore standard, Target brand work boots. They were ready for some good, clean breaking-and-entering.

"In what way?" Wesley asked skeptically.

Angel was, very frankly, insulted. "He has two professional thieves in the car with him, and he asks how breaking into a house is easy." The detective shook his head. "So sad."

"No respect," Spike agreed mournfully.

"Well, if it's so easy, get to it then," Wesley snapped. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, which made Angel remember that once upon a time, Wesley's job had been to stop crime and some of the White-Hat-or-Death instincts were probably still around. "I still fail to see why Lorne couldn't have been your lookout."

"You've never seen Lorne try to commit crime. It's not pretty," Angel responded. "Trust me Wesley, this is better. He'll babysit the warehouse and you get to be a criminal."

"Broaden your horizons and the like," Spike added. "Aren't you book nerds supposed to get a kick out of that?" Wesley did not respond, but neither did he ask againwhy he was needed, so the detective took that as agreement.

"Okay," Angel gathered up his supplies, "once this goes off, that's your cue. Park in the driveway and then join me around back. I'll have the door open by then."

"This ain't me first time, Peaches," Spike interrupted, rolling his eyes.

"This is for Wesley's benefit," Angel snapped. "Wesley, standing watch is very easy. Just look out the front windows and if you see anyone, and I mean _anyone_, giving the house a funny look, yell for us."

Wesley nodded curtly, looking unhappy. "Hey, cheer up, Book Man," Spike grinned. "If you bollocks this up, your screams as they shoot you will alert Captain Forehead 'n me to the danger and give us time to get away."

"That's very comforting, Spike," the former Watcher said, now looking slightly nauseous.

Angel sighed, told Spike to stop tormenting Wesley, and took one more cursory glance up and down the street. He wasn't truly worried about anyone seeing him. Richard Wilkins' house was located in what would, under normal circumstances, be considered the rich neighborhood. The houses were spacious and far apart, the lawns were immaculately manicured, and there was a pool in every yard. Without looking back, the detective exited the car and darted up the mayor's lawn, towards his backyard.

Normally, Angel would be worried about maids or poolboys or any of the other multitudes of people that populated the houses of the rich during the day, but Redgrass was a blessing in that respect. In a town full of criminals, having normal people around was a dangerous thing that led to security breaches and FBI investigations. Therefore, the detective was positive that there was no one inside Mayor Wilkins' house.

Hedges, bushes, and tall trees could be the bane of a professional burglar's existence, or a blessing in disguise. It all depended on the position. Wilkins' hedges, for example, were about six feet tall and completely blocked all view of the backyard. "Rich people," Angel muttered with a chuckle as he slipped through a gap between the house and the bushes, using the crowbar he carried to beat some of the plants out of his way. Most people assumed that tall bushes could keep a thief out, but oftentimes the plants only served to block the house from view.

_Yep, pool,_ the detective thought. The swimming pool was large, well maintained, and kidney-shaped. It was very pretty. Angel felt the need to mess it up. He pushed several of the potted plants that lined the sides of the pool into the water, spreading dirt and leaves into the formerly pristine pool. That done, the detective moved to the fuse box.

A bomb is, in reality, a frightfully easy thing to make, and Angel had a thing for explosives. Sure, he could have fooled around with complicated wires and timers, but sometimes a low-tech solution provided the same result for half the trouble. Besides, this particular explosion was supposed to look simple.

From his backpack, Angel pulled three two-liter bottles filled with gasoline and taped together with duct tape. Two of them were filled right up to their caps, while another one was about half full. Gasoline was not actually what caused an explosion; it was the fumes that did the trick. The half-full bottle would be his detonator.

Angel used the crowbar he carried to rip open the cover of the fuse box. Damn, there was no room to stick the bottles. He was going to have to put the bomb on top of the box and hope the explosion was powerful enough to fry the fuses. After positioning the bottles close enough to the circuits to toast them, Angel unscrewed the top of his half-full bottle and dangled a wick inside. He frayed the end a bit and used some of his gum to stick the frayed parts to bottle. He let the long wick dangle to the ground and pulled out his Zippo lighter.

"Okay," he took a deep breath, "Dear God, don't let me blow up." It was the same prayer Angel said before he lit every explosive. He flipped his lighter on, stared at the flame for a moment, and then crouched down to light the tip of the wick. Then it became a matter of running for cover.

**Spike's POV**

The Watcher was annoying the hell out of him. Anybody would've though that Spike and Angel had just pulled Wesley off the street and told him to commit crime.

"Dammit, Percy, you're a Watcher, you fought criminals," Spike hissed as Wesley once again asked what would happen if they got caught. "You should not be as spineless as you are."

"Just because I once followed my moral code and still cling to some parts of it, it does not make me spineless," the brunette Englishman snapped.

Spike would not admit that Wesley's comment actually stung a little. Is that what he seemed like to others? Like a hardcore crook that had never tried to do good, who had never even _been_ good? Shaking it off as a moment of weakness, Spike returned to watching Wilkins' backyard for the explosion that would signal Angel blowing the fuse box, thus taking care of the Mayor's security system.

"What if Wilkins has a dog?" Wesley asked, completely out of nowhere.

Spike groaned, slamming his head against the seat and tightening his fingers on the wheel to keep from punching his countrymen until he couldn't ask anymore questions. "He does not have a dog," the blonde responded through clenched teeth. _Damn you Angel, what is taking so long?_

"How do you know?"

"Because Wilkins is allergic to dogs." Spike fidgeted, scratching at his right wrist. The lining of the gloves was itchy. He wished he had his leather motorcycle gloves, but they were at his apartment in Las Vegas.

"How do you know?" Wesley repeated.

_I must not thump him. Angel will nag me like an old woman if I thump him_. "Because we have an insider who says he is. Makes it bloody unlikely that the mayor would own a mutt."

"Ah yes, his assistant, Alan." Wesley paused contemplatively. "Why do we have to break in at all?"

Spike tightened his hands on the wheels and ground his teeth together. "We've already explained this."

"No, you didn't. You actually refused to tell me the reason we are going to rob and vandalize the mayor's house, because if I knew the true reason, I'd 'get nervous'." The brunette sounded irritated at being treated like a child, which was what Spike had been going for.

"And I was right. We'll tell you afterwards," Spike said soothingly.

"You-"

The former Watcher's statement was thankfully interrupted by a small explosion. Spike howled in glee and floored the accelerator, tearing up the driveway. Wesley cursed as he was thrown backwards in the seat. The SUV approached the house rapidly, fishtailing at the last moment so that the front of the car faced the street and the back faced the house. Spike grinned a giant, shiteating grin a Wes. "Time to earn your stripes, Percy."

**TBC**


	13. Chapter 13

**Part**: 13 

**Disclaimer**: Even AU, I don't own them

**Feedback**: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

**Summary:** AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.

**Author's Note:** Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. _Italics_ indicate thought.

**AN 2**: Apologies for the long hiatus. Fortunately, the technical difficulties have given me time to write, and _Miles To Go Before I Sleep_ will be updated regularly right up to the end

**Angel POV**

_10: 48 AM_

_June 23, 2005_

_382 Deschenel Avenue, Redgrass, Michigan_

Ah, Angel loved the smell of explosions in the morning. He darted past the smoking ruin of the fuse box and used his elbow to bash in the window of Wilkins' backdoor. By the time Spike pulled a green-faced Wesley around to the backyard, Angel had raided half of the room overlooking the pool.

"What do we got, Peaches?" Spike asked, looking nearly ecstatic.

"Smashable things," Angel responded, examining Wilkins' pool table with the excited air of a professional vandal. When he saw the pool cues hanging on the rack, well, that just sealed the deal. He pulled three of the cues off the rack, taking a few seconds to smash the fourth and final one over his knee. He tossed two of the cues to Spike and Wesley, who fumbled for a moment before catching his.

"What exactly do you intend for me to do with this?" Wesley asked, holding the cue like it might suddenly bite him.

"Percy, honestly, even a well-bred boy like yourself should know the basic properties of vandalism," Spike laughed, swinging his pool cue like abaseball bat and knocking a stereo off the shelf where it had been sitting.

"I-Angel, are you…" Wesley trailed off as when he noticed that Angel was using his keys to carve deep gashes and obscenities into the felt surface of the pool table.

"Go to the front of the house, Wesley," Angel murmured, staring at his handiwork. The cuts all lined up with each other, and the curses were symmetrically placed. Good. "Keep a look out. Break anything you can. Spike, you take the upstairs. I'll take the rest of this floor."

"Right-o, poof," Spike saluted him cheerfully with the pool cue and darted out of sight down the hallway. Wesley gave Angel a last look backwards and followed his countryman.

Continuing on his mission of chaos, Angel smashed anything that hadn't already been destroyed, which included the rest of Wilkins' stereo equipment. It was almost a shame to smash the expensive gear, but there was no way they could efficiently take it with them. With on last glance back at the pool room, Angel went down the hallway.

He made a pit stop in the first room he came to, which happened to be the bathroom. A mere two minutes later, Angel left the bathroom in a state of total destruction. In addition, it would soon be completely flooded, due to the fact that he had ripped the faucet off the sink (causing water to begin spewing from the pipe), blocked the tub drain, and then allowed the tub to begin filling up. It was a good moment to be him.

**Spike POV **

Spike was crowing over his good fortune to be allowed to raid the upper levels of Wilkins' lair. The upstairs was always where the good stuff was kept. The blonde made his way from room to room, merrily smashing. It felt good, especially considering the fact that Wilkins' home looked like an old woman had been responsible for designing it. The wallpaper alone was enough to make his eyes bleed. Hell, Wilkins' might even thank whoever had put large holes in his walls and used a pocketknife to shred his wallpaper. It meant that the mayor would have to get new wallpaper, _better _wallpaper, and that would make everyone happy.

The blonde reached Wilkins' bedroom and considered it for a moment, twirling the pool cue thoughtfully. What would make the best statement? Robbing the mayor, obviously, but what then? Spike distractedly raided Wilkins' dressers as he considered. Tearing the sheets and comforter in two? No, not a big enough statement of loathing, but hey, a Rolex and was that a stack of money? Hmm, breaking the entire bed in two might work, but it would take too much time. Oh yes, definitely a stack of money. How to properly show the burning hatred of a vandal? Oh. _Yeah, that'll do nicely._

Spike finished raiding the room, finding two more Rolexes, several sets of cufflinks, a pistol (which he left untouched), and what appeared to be about two thousand dollars worth of dosh. He nearly cackled, but controlled himself. Cackling evilly was Angelus' thing, and Angelus was a ponce.

After checking through the rest of the bedroom, Spike found nothing besides a small, portable safe. He considered it for a moment before tossing it in the pillowcase with the rest of the pilfered items. It didn't weigh that much. Probably just filled with boring legal documents, but hey, Spike was an opportunist. Besides, he bet Peaches hadn't come up with nearly as much, considering the big poof was mostly on a search-and-destroy mission.

Smiling, Spike squatted down on his heels and pulled out his ever-present Zippo light. He lit it smoothly and held the flame to a corner of the bed. The blankets caught fire easily, and spread. Hopefully, most of the bed would burn up. Spike stood up and smiled. _Beauty_.

When Spike left the bedroom, he backtracked, intending to go to the other side of the upstairs area. The stairs opened up onto the foyer, and there he was greeted with a bizarre sight. Well, then again, it wasn't particularly strange, especially considering Angel's average, but Wussley was certainly making a big deal of it.

'It' was the rumpled rug in the foyer that Angel was staring at as though it was speaking prophecy to him. It was a nice enough rug, Persian and fairly expensive looking. Someone (Spike would bet his duster that the someone was Angel) had caused it to slide into a corner and wrinkle up. _Git was probably running and slipped_, Spike thought with amusement, but his mirth was tempered by the knowledge that Angel was having one of his episodes at the worst possible times.

"You wanna snap out of it, Peaches? The Watcher is starin' at you like you've grown a third eye." Spike was trying for sympathetic instead of cross. He knew Angel couldn't help himself.

"Can't," Angel responded tersely, still staring at the rug. His hands were clenched tightly around the pool cue. _Oh, bollocks,_ Spike groused. Wesley had stopped keeping watch, instead opting to stare at Angel with a look that was half befuddled, half calculating.

"Well then, do whatever the hell it is you need to do to become useful again, you great prancing fairy," the blonde man snapped, idly stepping back to kick a hole in the staircase railing. They were running on a time limit and Angel was buggering it up completely.

Angel needed no more encouragement. He dropped the pool cue and the pillowcase, nearly pouncing on the rug in his haste. Spike watched, somewhat incredulous, as Angel dragged it back to the middle of the foyer, where it must have been previously, and carefully smoothed out the wrinkles. After arranging the tassels on the rug just so, Angel stepped back and examined the rug critically. Apparently, it met the approval of the great poof's chemically imbalanced brain, because he beamed up at Spike like a happy puppy and stated, "Okay, I'm good."

"That's dandy, lardass," Spike responded pleasantly. "Now get back to work."

Angel scowled, but obediently smashed a picture frame that had been hanging on the wall. "I am your boss. You're not allowed to call me 'lardass'," he muttered petulantly.

Spike gouged a hole in the wall near him with his pool cue and responded, "I wouldn't care if you were the damn President, I'd still call you lardass."

Still grumbling, Angel disappeared into another room to wreak more havoc. Spike grinned cheerfully. Now that the ponce had gotten his moment of crazy out, he'd be focused for the rest of their little adventure. The blonde man moved towards the nearest room. Wilkins had to have something else worth stealing, right?

**Wesley POV**

Wesley couldn't understand it. Angel and Spike acted as though they were doing nothing wrong. It was like they weren't even aware that their lives were in danger every moment they were in this house. On the other hand, if Wesley became any tenser, it was likely that he'd explode. _Would Angel pick up the pieces_, he wondered idly, snorting unexpectedly at the sheer strangeness of the thought.

The scene a few moments earlier had been both unexpected and very educational. Wesley had been keeping watch as ordered, his anxiety mounting the longer the trio was in the house. When Angel had run by, he'd thought very little of it, besides being briefly amused when the rug slid beneath his leader's feet and nearly toppled the big man.

The former Watcher had, however, become very interested when Angel had stopped dead, staring at the disheveled rug with a kind of passive horror. Wesley had been about to ask what was wrong when Spike appeared.

So, the question became, what exactly had he witnessed? It had never crossed Wesley's mind that Angel might have some sort of disorder. He had just assumed that the big man was a very neat person who, as Gunn had put it, 'cleaned things like a neurotic raccoon'. But it did make a sort of sense. Angelus was very clean too. Wesley wondered if either of their parents had been diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder.

The sound of something very large hitting the floor came from the room Angel was in, accompanied with the sounds of smashing glass. Wesley winced and returned to keeping watch. Now was not the time to ponder the eccentricities of his partner in crime.

They had been in the house for longer than five minutes, but less than ten. Wesley's stomach was cramping with nervousness and his hands were sweating inside of the gloves. He could actually _feel_ his heart pounding in his chest, and he glanced down at his shaking hands with interest. He wasn't used to actually being out in the field when it came to crime. Normally, he planned and plotted and made connections. Breaking and entering was a whole new experience for the former Watcher, and so far, he didn't like it in the least. It was very…messy.

Angel emerged from the room he had presumably finished vandalizing and went past Wesley towards what looked to be the kitchen. (The sack over Angel's shoulder was half full. With what, Wesley wasn't sure.) However, halfway into the room, Angel paused and turned, staring at the Englishman for a moment.

"Yes?" Wesley asked.

Angel was silent as he studied Wesley. Then he quietly said, "Smash out the windows," and entered the kitchen.

Wesley was perplexed, but then realized Angel meant for him to shatter the windows on either side of the door. The Englishman did so quickly, wincing at the loud sound of shattering glass.

Spike's cursing echoed down from the upstairs area, as it had been the entire time. Sounds of crashing emitted from where Angel was trashing the kitchen. Wesley kept staring at the road, waiting for the cars to begin coming en masse to arrest and kill them. He actually felt as if he was going to vomit and he prayed that he didn't. Spike would make fun of him for it. Wesley's traitorous brain kept providing him images of crime scenes, broken and bloody bodies that were beaten past recognition. Then he started to substitute the faces on the bodies with himself or Fred or one of the others and he felt even more nauseous_. Deep breaths_, Wesley told himself_. Those two know what they're doing. Just keep watch and…is that smoke?_

He looked around frantically, sniffing the air like a dog, before noticing that there was a thin trail of black smoke coming from somewhere upstairs. "Angel! Spike!" Wesley bellowed, suddenly very alarmed. Was the house going to burn down around them?

"Is someone coming?" Angel asked as he skidded around a corner, eyes wide and worried. Wesley noticed, somewhat confused, that the entire left side of the mercenary's body was covered in a white substance. _Good God, I hope that's not cocaine_, Wesley thought inanely, before Spike poked his head over the banister to ask what was going on.

"Something's on fire" Wesley pointed, " and it's coming from upstairs!"

"What?" Angel quickly came further into the foyer to see the smoke. "Oh, God! Spike, what did you do!"

"I set his bedroom on fire." The tone in which Spike answered indicated that this was really something that should have been obvious.

It hadn't even occurred to Wesley that Spike might be responsible for the fire, but it made perfect sense. Only _he_ would actually set the house that they were still in ablaze. Angel and Wesley exchanged incredulous glances before focusing heated glares directly on the blonde man.

"Don't give me that look, you nonces," Spike protested irritably. "S'not like the house is going to explode!"

"It might, you idiot!" Angel yelled up at him. He was twirling the pool cue in his hands, seemingly unaware that he was doing it.

"We're runnin' out of time anyway." Spike, to Wesley's absolute amazement, pulled out a cigarette and lit it, leaning casually on the wall. "We should leave now, while the going's still good."

"Fine," Angel spat, glaring at his fellow assasin. "Get down here and go to the garage."

Spike grinned and darted to the stair railing, sliding down with a whoop. "Mess with his cars, yeah?"

"Yeah," Angel agreed. He headed towards the front door, but, stopped suddenly and called, "Spike? Do not set anything on fire."

"Sure, right," Spike called back dismissively, before turning a corner and disappearing.

"I'm serious, you little pyro!" Angel screamed. He shook his head, looking agitated. "Wes, come on." He opened the door and exited quickly.

Wesley followed him dutifully. "Does he often set things on fire? He's been here for several months and nothing has been incinerated, but…"

"Spike doesn't need to burn things. He just takes joy in harmless destruction." Angel glanced at the exterior of the house and scowled. "Are there any rocks around?"

Feeling more and more like he was in a dream, Wesley gestured towards the flowerbed that was neatly lined with a border of stones. "Burning things in harmless?" he asked wonderingly.

"On a scale of Gandhi to Apocalyptic," Angel shrugged, then reached down and picked up a rock. Wes actually saw him grin a little as he heaved the rock through a window that Spike had missed.

The Watcher was edging towards the car, desperate to leave the scene of the crime right-the-bloody-hell now, when the garage door seemed to explode outwards. Wesley shrieked and tumbled onto the lawn, bruising himself as he landed awkwardly. Angel, true to form, remained completely calm as the car that had just bashed its way through the garage door screeched to a halt in front of them. Spike was in the driver's seat, grinning like a madman.

"That was fun," he laughed as he exited the car. "I've always wanted to do that."

As Wesley picked himself up off the grass, he glanced at the car-shaped hole in the garage door, the smoke that was starting to leak from the top corner of the house, plus the smashed condition of the car that had been used as a battering ram, and decided that Spike was far more then harmlessly destructive. The blonde Englishman was edging towards menace to society.

Angel rummaged around in his pillowcase for a moment, before pulling out what appeared to be a can of spray paint. "Take care of the car," he ordered Spike, tossing the can to him. "Wesley, smash out the car windows and lights." The Watcher realized with a start that he was somehow still holding the pool cue.

"Where are you going?" Spike asked, shaking up the can of paint.

"Following your lead," Angel responded sardonically. Without another word, he sprinted out of sight behind the house. Wesley was understandably confused and edging towards panic.

"You'll catch plenty o' flies that way, but it won't help destroy the car," Spike snapped, and the brunette realized his mouth was hanging open.

Grumbling about insane thieves and being killed, Wesley nonetheless began to bash in the windows and headlights of what had once been a very lovely black Camaro. Spike was busy as the back of the car, spray painting something onto whatever space hadn't been smashed. Once Wesley was satisfied with the state of the windshield, he darted back to see Spike putting the finishing touches on his artwork.

"'Burn in hell, you motherfucking cracker'," Wesley read aloud, confusing ratcheting up a few more notches.

"Think it shows enough hate?" Spike asked, looking smug as he examined the words.

"Erm, Spike, I'm not sure you can actually call Mayor Wilkins a 'cracker'," the Watcher pointed out.

"Why not?"

"Because you are also Caucasian."

Spike snorted. "Pfft. Semantics."

Before Wesley could interrogate Spike further, Angel darted around the side of the house, looking pleased with himself. "It's time for us to go. Now!" He was halfway to the car before he realized that neither of his partners in crime were following. Wesley was taking a moment to recover his senses. Spike was busy gloating

"Oi! Hey, admire my graffiti, you selfish ponce!" the blonde yelled. Rolling his eyes, Angel ran back to look at the words scrawled on the hood of Wilkins' car.

"It's lovely. Monet himself couldn't have done better. We need to go." The fact that Angel looked anxious was enough to tip Wesley over into full-blown panic.

"Fine," Spike acquiesced with a smirk, and then all three of the men ran to their car like the hounds of Hell were following them.

Angel leaped into the driver's seat, Spike following him closely, while Wesley sprawled into the backseat gracelessly. The car squealed away from the house, and as the brunette Englishman glanced back, he was able to see that Angel had set Wilkins' hedges on fire. _Too much burning,_ he thought incoherently.

"That was easier than I thought it would be," Spike muttered, stretching in his seat like a content cat. "Peaches, are you aware that you're covered in white dust?"

Wesley was unable to relax. He was actually shaking the entire drive back to the warehouse. Spike and Angel occasionally glanced back at him, and, seeing that he was still a nervous wreck, simply went back to watching the road. It wasn't until Angel had parked outside the warehouse that Wesley actually took a deep breath and tried to still the shaking.

"Are you better?" Angel asked, noting that the Watcher seemed less like he was about to start screaming.

"I think so, yes," Wesley replied, taking another deep breath. Now that he was finally back to the warehouse that he called home, the adrenaline thrumming through his system became an almost pleasant buzz. A natural high.

"So, you've finally gone and done something nasty," Spike observed. "How do ya feel?"

Wesley considered. He was dealing with the aftereffects sheer terror. He was bruised and still shaking a little, and it was unlikely that he would be able to go to sleep for the next two nights. "I feel quite nice, actually."

Angel smiled and Spike cackled, "We've corrupted Percy and pissed off Wilkins. Today's a good day."

Once in the warehouse, Spike knocked to indicate to Lorne that he should open the door. While Lorne was busy fumbling with the locks, Wesley examined Angel once again. It seemed very odd to him that the mercenary would panic over a rug out of place but be unaffected by having flour covering him. The Watcher made a mental note to read up on obsessive-compulsive disorder.

"Is there something bothering you?" Angel asked suddenly, and Wesley started as he realized that he'd been caught staring.

Thinking fast, he responded, "I was actually wondering why Spike sprayed 'cracker' onto the mayor's car. It seems odd to give a racial slur to someone of your own race."

Angel chuckled. "Ah, but Wilkins doesn't know that Spike is white."

Wesley was intrigued. "But why are you trying to make him think that the thieves are a different race?"

Lorne finally got the door open, allowing Angel, Spike, and Wesley to enter the inner sanctum of the warehouse. While Angel and Spike unloaded their pillowcases full of stolen goods onto the floor, Wesley repeated his question.

"Because," Spike answered, "with the exception of Trick, the big shots in this town are all white. The working class is an ethnic soup. If we can make the Hamilton suspicious of his own people, we're one step closer to bringing him down."

"You're hoping he starts being harder on the workers," Wesley realized, feeling awed. "You're trying to start a riot."

"See, boss?" Spike grinned. "I told you the Head Boy here was smart." Angel rolled his eyes and continued sorting through his loot.

"I'm gonna assume things went well," Lorne stated, eyeing the piles of valuables.

Spike cackled. "That they did. Anyone want a Rolex?"

**Mayor Wilkins POV**

_11:30 AM_

_June 23, 2005_

_382 Deschenel Avenue, Redgrass, Michigan_

Break time was Richard Wilkins' favorite part of the workday. There was just something about watching your favorite soap opera in the comfort of your own home that made the rest of the day go smoother. As his car came closer and closer to his house, he could practically feel the glass of milk and plate of cookies in his hands. In fact, he was so busy imagining the comforts of home that he didn't notice the trail of thick black smoke that was billowing up into the sky until his driver pulled into his neighborhood.

"Now what in the world could that be?" Wilkins asked, leaning forward to try and see where the smoke was coming from. His brow scrunched in concern. He had a bad feeling about this.

"I'm not sure, sir," the driver replied. Wilkins ignored him. Whatever was burning was getting closer. The bad feeling got worse.

It wasn't until the car pulled onto Deschenel Avenue that the mayor's bad feeling was confirmed. As the car pulled up in front of his burning house, Wilkins' stumbled out of the car, horrified. How was this possible? He'd turned off the coffeepot. The stove hadn't been on. Nothing had been on. There was no way…

Suddenly, the mayor noticed his Camaro parked outside of his house. The back end of it was completely crushed and it looked as if the windows had been smashed out. Confused and suspicious, Wilkins drew closer to the car.

"Sir, maybe you shouldn't," his driver exclaimed, grabbing a hold of his shoulder. Wilkins shoved him away and moved towards his car. He barely even noticed the heat that was radiating from his burning house like an oven. His entire world had shrunken down to his Camaro and the writing he could see on it.

Wilkins finally stood beside his car and stared for a long moment. 'Burn in hell, you motherfucking cracker!' was emblazoned on it in canary yellow paint. After a moment, it truly sunk in to Richard Wilkins that the destruction of his house, his car, his property was all deliberate.

Had anyone been watching the mayor's face, they would have seen the alarming change. His normally genial features twisted into a snarl of hatred and his hands clenched into fists. He looked like he was a completely different person; a much more dangerous person.

"Sir, should I call someone?" yelled his driver, who had stayed at a safe distance away from the house.

"Don't bother," Mayor Wilkins called back, not taking his eyes from the car. "I'll call myself.

**Angel POV**

_7:02 AM_

_June 24, 2005_

_1212 Whedon Street, Redgrass Michigan_

"You could tell when they found out," Gunn laughed. "The foreman was standing there, looking all calm and smug and whatever, then some dude came and whispered in his ear. Suddenly, he starts to panic and do a roll call to make sure everyone was there. Funniest thing I've seen in a while."

"It happened at the weapons area too." Fred grinned. "Only since I'm second-in-command over there, I had to act very concerned. You wouldn't believe how frustrated they were when it turned out that nobody was missing."

"It's going to bother them, that's for sure," Spike agreed, taking another swig of the wine they had stored in the mini-fridge. It was reminiscent of the first night Angel had come to Redgrass, what with the cheap wine and plastic cups, but it was different as well. The entire group seemed more relaxed, happier due to their victory. It made Angel feel…content. Like he was among friends. Even Gunn wasn't as hostile as he usually was. A feeling of celebration was in the air.

"Oh, it did more than bother them, cats and kitten," Lorne replied. "You should have seen the expressions on the faces of the people who came into the Cold Front. They looked like they'd seen their own deaths. From what I hear, Wilkins was in a hell of snit."

"Considering what we did to his house, I'm not surprised." Wesley was at his desk as usual, but he too held a glass of wine in his hand.

"You should've seen this one," Spike gestured a little wildly at Wesley. The blonde man had had more to drink then the rest of them. "Window smashing machine."

"It sounds exciting," Fred giggled.

"It was really nothing," Wesley responded, blushing a little.

"No, no, it was something," Spike argued, grinning. "We need to make a toast." He held his cup into the air. "To Wesley's first home invasion."

"To Wesley's first home invasion," the others repeated dutifully, while Wesley tried not to smile.

_This is nice_, Angel thought as he drank. Contentment was creeping up on him again, as was exhaustion. _This is very nice. They're all very nice_. And much to his surprise, Angel realized that he would miss them when this job was over. _That_ was a bad sign.

**Angelus POV**

_9:15 AM_

_June 24, 2005_

_Penthouse Apartment, Los Angeles Branch of Wolfram and Hart_

Angelus was in the shower when Eve came. His liaison to the Senior Partners didn't seem to comprehend things like privacy, which took some getting used to. But Angelus was nothing if not adaptable. Besides, if he made her give back the keys now, she'd just have new set for the next time she barged in on him while he was trying to avoid work.

The water was almost too hot to stand, scalding his skin. He liked it that way. Angel had the same quirk. It ran in rivulets down his body, too many to count, and they heated him in a way that no amount of blankets or sunlight could. If Angelus could, he would have lived in the shower, simply so he never had to let go of that hot, clean feeling.

The CEO had sensed it when Eve entered the apartment. Nothing tangible had changed, besides the sudden surety that he was no longer alone in his home. Angelus could sense her behind him now, admiring the view._ I wonder where she gets the keys_, he thought to himself, before turning around in irritation and stepping out of the shower, soaking wet.

"Hello Eve," Angelus said, voice not quite threatening, but certainly not pleased.

"Hello," she responded, not looking up from what lay below his waistline.

Angelus tolerated this for a moment, then became exasperated and snapped his fingers in the liaison's face. "I'm up here!"

"I know," Eve responded, smiling coolly. "Just noticing that you and your brother really are identical."

"Yes, we're considering going on tour." The CEO crossed his arms and glared. He really disliked when his showers were interrupted. "Was there something you wanted?"

Eve met his eyes and he noticed that she looked a bit unnerved. "Yes."

He sighed. "And what would that be."

"Hamilton's people called. He wants to meet with you personally in Redgrass."

Was it his imagination, or had the temperature suddenly gotten colder?

**TBC**


End file.
